The mystic missed the mist
For he was focused on the most
The waterfall, the all, the awe
No longer just the grist, the gist
He was the mill, the real, the wheel
No longer knowing, he could fully feel
Past the taste, the snack, and to the meal
So freely given he could not hope to steal
Thank you for being. If you would like to see more of my poetry, essays, and other writings, check out my blog on Medium: https://medium.com/words-ideas-thoughts
