The mystic teachers, scrambling for donations, agree on one call. The words they weave are all-insistent: If only you would stop lying about your body Something wonderful, and very new, Would overcome you and un-shell you like a Boiled egg turned out in the Universe to bounce, Vulnerable, but at least naked, and certainly whole.
The question is whether it can even be done at all. Because a lie breeds, casts spawn, grows eggs, multiplied, persistent, And a true thought comes still-born, lapsing and shoddy; They cannot survive even one of the contractions going through you. Where is the mid-wife who would dare announce The comings and goings of such failures in the soul?
And who would want them said? "She tried…." Is little comfort to all those who also lied; Who reave the borders of the body-lands, Plundering better lies, for making stronger stands, Off in their private places, where old fires Are kept alive long, long and long by ancient liars.