Dead forms and rituals like words or hierarchies or economies cannot keep pace with Truth as its revelations are always roiling and writhing Beauties for eyes that see and change for Hearts with wings of why that fly in rhythms rising on thermals of Wonder to a farther sky -- Lifting the veil, the seeker of Truth, the Poet, sees it all as Beauty eventually, the good the bad and the ugly, all have a part to play -- however, even our DNA assigns a hormone to attraction, so are we free to choose? Why do we average our looks over millions of years, to only evolve in but a few. Monoculture, is that not an Oxymoron? Wildness is the creative, the mutation is Natures goal, and a longing for a Beauty, no eye has ever seen, a bridge to new wonders of a Man or a Woman thats never been ... a bridge over a swamp you call your home -- language is a bridge of agreements over the wild and never ending stream of consciouses that is Poetry.