I am lost in a forest of strangers,Conversing with the spirits of the wind and trees,Arguing over the rustling of leaves.In deep with these ecclectionaries,Throwing paint with the revolutionaries, Writing in letters and wordily, Plotting a course through the forest in poetry.Through the Dadists, the Surrealists,The Cubists and the Modernists,The selfishness of these brutish moments,Bleeding…