The breeding of superstition degrades
The human spirit, leaving us stranded
In pettiness, in fear of each other,
Spinning laws to protect the powerful,
To deny choices born in love, to crush
The essential purity of impulse.
Only the night skies provide any hope,
For the universe is as chaotic
As any passion, as disorganized
As natural thought, as unexpected
As the truth. There our essence cannot be
Imprisoned, there we know diversity
Of form and spontaneity of play
Born from untethered imagination.