Prose Poems

What is a life? I have asked myself this question not to answer it, but to be finally consoled by it. The words come easier now that the years have passed. This is not to say I am closer to an answer than before, but at least I can frame it, put it up on the wall, look at it without flinching. I have many reasons to avoid this act, not the least of which is to have ignored life itself, or worse, to have abandoned it.

The fundamental act of the imagination = intuition as faculty of origin & intuitive searches as layers of curtains boxes sliding doors & spirals beyond to prosper imagine put a value on it watch it open up to the consequential essential of It?