But there is more

We hold these truths to be self-evident
When idle fixtures of the human form
slope—tender, pensive—o’er the soul
The creep abounds, it slithers lightly,
Deeply, fathoms—but fathom this:
The mind’s elusive, what of the soul
The part is good, what of the whole
But which, bold, which is the part and
Though we feel it, is it in us,
Yet without feeling, soully know.
Hold me dearly, hold me
As light breaks gently over hills
The crunch of feet, the frost that kills
The warmth of life, pleasure is not human
Gaze at the beauty and it seeps out and out and out
And this is not good, O Creep,
But it is Good.
I am equal but there is more.