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"bisect" poems
I can feel the gentle, rhythmic breathing And the tepid touch of your skin Soon the sun will rise, And you must go to class But you will mutter an excuse Just to stay a minute more with me I can hear your soft snores, And muffled moans Soon we will succumb to summer, And it’s malicious motives, To bisect your beauty, From my greedy grasp I can smell the shampoo That I will never smell again For I will move, And you will move, A Dispossessed Connection Though our spring may have ceased Our wilted whispers will never wane Though my bed may be devoid I’ll remember where you had lain. I’ll remember our long laughs And your sweet smile, more stunning than the stars I’ll remember our wishful words And the times that were ours.
0
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 4:20 AM UTC
taylor-ramey
To our love
I can feel the gentle, rhythmic breathing And the tepid touch of your skin Soon the sun will rise, And you must go to class But you will mutter an excuse Just to stay a minute more with me I can hear your soft snores, And muffled moans Soon we will succumb to summer, And it’s malicious motives, To bisect your beauty, From my greedy grasp I can smell the shampoo That I will never smell again For I will move, And you will move, A Dispossessed Connection Though our spring may have ceased Our wilted whispers will never wane Though my bed may be devoid I’ll remember where you had lain. I’ll remember our long laughs And your sweet smile, more stunning than the stars I’ll remember our wishful words And the times that were ours.
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25
No one chose to iterate Or elaborate to me The vast unending sea of grief We tred; trying to breathe Our paths bisect and weave to form A beautiful tapestry That on the surface gleams and glows With possibility. Beneath, time tugs each thin line Until one snaps and breaks One little thread removed and gone Left havoc in its wake. Something once so beautiful Unravels, sags and fades Parallel to how the Sun Sets each dying day.
0
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
sarah-spang
Grief.
No one chose to iterate Or elaborate to me The vast unending sea of grief We tred; trying to breathe Our paths bisect and weave to form A beautiful tapestry That on the surface gleams and glows With possibility. Beneath, time tugs each thin line Until one snaps and breaks One little thread removed and gone Left havoc in its wake. Something once so beautiful Unravels, sags and fades Parallel to how the Sun Sets each dying day.
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16
I’ve been thinking about hands a lot lately and how fingerprints are like permanent, foreshadowing tree rings etched onto our beings; I wonder if the number of rings on my palms have any correlation to the number of years I’ll live or the number of years he’ll live or the number of years that she lived. I’ve been thinking a lot about         life lines        and        heart lines and if there is any stock to be found in palmistry; I wonder how my fate line got to be so muddled with my luck line.   I see my life the way a clairvoyant would: in cut-up and choppy strips of film— I should have seen the omens, I should have read the smoke signals, I should have recognized the cards. Act One began on a waning crescent moon and continued until its gluttonous belly had swollen with light; I thought to myself that craniums made of gallium often melt the quickest, that blood filled with plutonium often flows the slowest.  I would have given my body up to the pathologist free of charge, would have let him dig his hands into my entrails for some sort of divination, some sort of revelation— I was never told to beware the Ides of June nor the Kalends of November. Act Two began with the birth of Jack Frost and has been continuing without intermission for the past four celestial cycles; I thought to myself that heart valves made of sodium polyacrylate often love the most, that sinkholes disguised as fingertips often feel the deepest.  He whispered in my ear cliched words about not believing in God, but how I made him feel blessed, and in that moment I knew he was the oneiromantic being that had been shadowing my dreams since 1996— I guess you could say that, sometimes, I believe in love. There is an art to fortune-telling there is an art to hands there is an art to bones there is an art to dreams, and over the years, I have found them coinciding more often than not.  In my sleep, in notebooks, in irises, in mirrors, in poetry, in small little sighs. I do not know if I believe in fate or destiny, in God, in auras, or in the Blood Moon Prophecy, but I do know that I believe in you.  I find myself writing sappy verses and smelling your shirts and I do not know if it is because I miss you or if it is because I’m bored or if they’ve somehow                        mergedintothesamething.   I’ve been wondering a lot lately about where you show up on my hands; about where he showed up and where she showed up.  I want to know which lines bisect and which lines fall short; I want to know if the resemblance between         mother        and         daughter continues into that of my palm lines.  I want to know if my life line matches hers and if my heart line is even worth giving away— find me in your crystal ball, make me your sacrificed animal, look for my body in the stars, and we will know that         it was all made to be.
0
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
taylor-st-onge
Haruspex
I’ve been thinking about hands a lot lately and how fingerprints are like permanent, foreshadowing tree rings etched onto our beings; I wonder if the number of rings on my palms have any correlation to the number of years I’ll live or the number of years he’ll live or the number of years that she lived. I’ve been thinking a lot about         life lines        and        heart lines and if there is any stock to be found in palmistry; I wonder how my fate line got to be so muddled with my luck line.   I see my life the way a clairvoyant would: in cut-up and choppy strips of film— I should have seen the omens, I should have read the smoke signals, I should have recognized the cards. Act One began on a waning crescent moon and continued until its gluttonous belly had swollen with light; I thought to myself that craniums made of gallium often melt the quickest, that blood filled with plutonium often flows the slowest.  I would have given my body up to the pathologist free of charge, would have let him dig his hands into my entrails for some sort of divination, some sort of revelation— I was never told to beware the Ides of June nor the Kalends of November. Act Two began with the birth of Jack Frost and has been continuing without intermission for the past four celestial cycles; I thought to myself that heart valves made of sodium polyacrylate often love the most, that sinkholes disguised as fingertips often feel the deepest.  He whispered in my ear cliched words about not believing in God, but how I made him feel blessed, and in that moment I knew he was the oneiromantic being that had been shadowing my dreams since 1996— I guess you could say that, sometimes, I believe in love. There is an art to fortune-telling there is an art to hands there is an art to bones there is an art to dreams, and over the years, I have found them coinciding more often than not.  In my sleep, in notebooks, in irises, in mirrors, in poetry, in small little sighs. I do not know if I believe in fate or destiny, in God, in auras, or in the Blood Moon Prophecy, but I do know that I believe in you.  I find myself writing sappy verses and smelling your shirts and I do not know if it is because I miss you or if it is because I’m bored or if they’ve somehow                        mergedintothesamething.   I’ve been wondering a lot lately about where you show up on my hands; about where he showed up and where she showed up.  I want to know which lines bisect and which lines fall short; I want to know if the resemblance between         mother        and         daughter continues into that of my palm lines.  I want to know if my life line matches hers and if my heart line is even worth giving away— find me in your crystal ball, make me your sacrificed animal, look for my body in the stars, and we will know that         it was all made to be.
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67
the first law of thermodynamics speaks: energy cannot be created nor destroyed hypothetically, there must be some type of energy created between two people though this winter has lasted a few years, natural vagabonds are asunder, seeking warmth for years, we were condemned to search for that other half of us to keep us alive we want someone who will grab our shoulders at the edge of a steep cliff we want someone who will appreciate the small things, like drinking tea together if our atoms bisect and travel alone someday, i want to know i felt that fear of love that loss is the kindest of suicides, it empties the entrails which scatters through the walls and the ribcage grows a garden of dead plants and a unlimited drought occurs god knows when the clock will stop ticking in my chest and my soul goes west -kra
0
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
screampoetry
kindest of suicides
the first law of thermodynamics speaks: energy cannot be created nor destroyed hypothetically, there must be some type of energy created between two people though this winter has lasted a few years, natural vagabonds are asunder, seeking warmth for years, we were condemned to search for that other half of us to keep us alive we want someone who will grab our shoulders at the edge of a steep cliff we want someone who will appreciate the small things, like drinking tea together if our atoms bisect and travel alone someday, i want to know i felt that fear of love that loss is the kindest of suicides, it empties the entrails which scatters through the walls and the ribcage grows a garden of dead plants and a unlimited drought occurs god knows when the clock will stop ticking in my chest and my soul goes west -kra
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11
11 I never told the buried gold Upon the hill—that lies— I saw the sun—his plunder done Crouch low to guard his prize. He stood as near As stood you here— A pace had been between— Did but a snake bisect the brake My life had forfeit been. That was a wondrous ***** I hope ’twas honest gained. Those were the fairest ingots That ever kissed the ***** Whether to keep the secret— Whether to reveal— Whether as I ponder Kidd will sudden sail— Could a shrewd advise me We might e’en divide— Should a shrewd betray me— Atropos decide!
0
1.7k
Emily Dickinson
I never told the buried gold
11 I never told the buried gold Upon the hill—that lies— I saw the sun—his plunder done Crouch low to guard his prize. He stood as near As stood you here— A pace had been between— Did but a snake bisect the brake My life had forfeit been. That was a wondrous ***** I hope ’twas honest gained. Those were the fairest ingots That ever kissed the ***** Whether to keep the secret— Whether to reveal— Whether as I ponder Kidd will sudden sail— Could a shrewd advise me We might e’en divide— Should a shrewd betray me— Atropos decide!
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22
928 The Heart has narrow Banks It measures like the Sea In mighty—unremitting Bass And Blue Monotony Till Hurricane bisect And as itself discerns Its sufficient Area The Heart convulsive learns That Calm is but a Wall Of unattempted Gauze An instant’s Push demolishes A Questioning—dissolves.
0
1.6k
Emily Dickinson
The Heart has narrow Banks
928 The Heart has narrow Banks It measures like the Sea In mighty—unremitting Bass And Blue Monotony Till Hurricane bisect And as itself discerns Its sufficient Area The Heart convulsive learns That Calm is but a Wall Of unattempted Gauze An instant’s Push demolishes A Questioning—dissolves.
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13
Said I was, then I wasn’t Tossed my photo id 99 on the interstate Forgot my home address This or last years birthdays Cerebral teasing, electrical wheezing Coughing up candy colored viscous mixtures Pain pills, strange ills, black tar rapt Plastics wax kid cradle doping until fatal Sipping succulent sups from yang’s ladle Freak streaks bisect mind-framed societies Claim lives and blind young eyes Perhaps its an exaggerated fable More able however an argument for contrast Long-lived mobile monument smoke stacks Toothless twelve year old flashing crack caps Slow know elapse forgotten hats blown home Always sixty seconds to go, cool clock interlock Alleyway temple made meek street ever bleak Folly is an empty spoon, children’s cartoons Wall starter, void walker, treble swelled neurotic Creeps dream witchcraft borderline hypnotic Say it was before it wasn’t
0
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
scipio-africanus
Said I was.
Said I was, then I wasn’t Tossed my photo id 99 on the interstate Forgot my home address This or last years birthdays Cerebral teasing, electrical wheezing Coughing up candy colored viscous mixtures Pain pills, strange ills, black tar rapt Plastics wax kid cradle doping until fatal Sipping succulent sups from yang’s ladle Freak streaks bisect mind-framed societies Claim lives and blind young eyes Perhaps its an exaggerated fable More able however an argument for contrast Long-lived mobile monument smoke stacks Toothless twelve year old flashing crack caps Slow know elapse forgotten hats blown home Always sixty seconds to go, cool clock interlock Alleyway temple made meek street ever bleak Folly is an empty spoon, children’s cartoons Wall starter, void walker, treble swelled neurotic Creeps dream witchcraft borderline hypnotic Say it was before it wasn’t
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23
I would that I could clasp hands, at once, with every diasporic man And our hands could merge and rise up as a single fist And all the subjective shades of our own colors and the Daze of our own druthers would be shed in the process Yes, I find that I absorb the pain around me like a fine osmosis That unifies the minds forged in our generation’s social suffering And I wish my skin would grow akin and reflect a synthesis Because there is no bliss when men bisect people into “us” and “them” I would that I could turn my insides out and transform my *** Organs, as a moth does surge inside a closeted cocoon Only to emerge with wings and the power of new found flight And I wonder if I too could sing the perspective of new heights Because there is only ******* in a world where those who Share the same ****** shape cannot share the same heart Are condemned to be kept apart by taboos viewed through institution Started by confused men, afraid to admit that making love is a free art I would that I could push my hand into the ground and grow Roots that drive deep, past the sand, beyond the rending flesh Of our loved ones’ bodies and mesh with the immortal earth As if I could bolster, with my chemical composite, the site of true birth Because when the mightiest of the world’s glories can be Bought and sold for the price of arbitrary ******* figures Written in the blood of forests, in the torn face of mountains Then we can stop ignoring the forlorn thought of dark days before us I would that I could bring back all those lost before their time That a rhyme could sting the cold cheeks of slaves who never Saw a western sunrise comprised of multicolor, of many brothers That I could brush softly the minds of couples buried not together And scream to them that time left some bereft of victories Yet to shape their scene, yet to substantiate their dreams Then I would quickly reseal the doors of slumber that guard The restless dreamers of the past before revealing the Horrors of societies stepping once forward, then twice back Yes, before the haunting words of hateful choruses should Ever shape their reposeful, moral-less, and peaceful sleep For the hopeful eyes of soulful passing activists should never weep.
0
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
devin-weaver
Eyes that Never Weep
I would that I could clasp hands, at once, with every diasporic man And our hands could merge and rise up as a single fist And all the subjective shades of our own colors and the Daze of our own druthers would be shed in the process Yes, I find that I absorb the pain around me like a fine osmosis That unifies the minds forged in our generation’s social suffering And I wish my skin would grow akin and reflect a synthesis Because there is no bliss when men bisect people into “us” and “them” I would that I could turn my insides out and transform my *** Organs, as a moth does surge inside a closeted cocoon Only to emerge with wings and the power of new found flight And I wonder if I too could sing the perspective of new heights Because there is only ******* in a world where those who Share the same ****** shape cannot share the same heart Are condemned to be kept apart by taboos viewed through institution Started by confused men, afraid to admit that making love is a free art I would that I could push my hand into the ground and grow Roots that drive deep, past the sand, beyond the rending flesh Of our loved ones’ bodies and mesh with the immortal earth As if I could bolster, with my chemical composite, the site of true birth Because when the mightiest of the world’s glories can be Bought and sold for the price of arbitrary ******* figures Written in the blood of forests, in the torn face of mountains Then we can stop ignoring the forlorn thought of dark days before us I would that I could bring back all those lost before their time That a rhyme could sting the cold cheeks of slaves who never Saw a western sunrise comprised of multicolor, of many brothers That I could brush softly the minds of couples buried not together And scream to them that time left some bereft of victories Yet to shape their scene, yet to substantiate their dreams Then I would quickly reseal the doors of slumber that guard The restless dreamers of the past before revealing the Horrors of societies stepping once forward, then twice back Yes, before the haunting words of hateful choruses should Ever shape their reposeful, moral-less, and peaceful sleep For the hopeful eyes of soulful passing activists should never weep.
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36
The willow weeps near bedroom windows.  Bare. The - at last - leafless branches, stripped By crystalling North, End in exponential curves to bisect a frozen axis. But beyond, against the sky, though  seen Through willow tears, there's that evergreen We planted  twenty years ago: arms raised  in Exuberance of immortal green - a shout and whoop For nature's Winter fireworks  There.
0
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:12 PM UTC
jeremy-ducane
"Sole heirs as well as you..."
The willow weeps near bedroom windows.  Bare. The - at last - leafless branches, stripped By crystalling North, End in exponential curves to bisect a frozen axis. But beyond, against the sky, though  seen Through willow tears, there's that evergreen We planted  twenty years ago: arms raised  in Exuberance of immortal green - a shout and whoop For nature's Winter fireworks  There.
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10
I have a hard time with differentiation Between getting coffee   And let's demolish 3 bottles of wine! Between getting inspired   And let's spend holidays seeing the country in a van! Between getting butterflies   And let's kiss on the face right now! Surely, There must be spectrums I can bisect   Splitting    Platonic Love from Romantic    Sensory from Sensual    And Casual from Committed But they are not immediately apparent to me. Regardless of type All ships must be properly cared for, So I will patch the holes Man the sails, And try not to rock the boats Too terribly hard.
0
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:32 PM UTC
subconscious-on-parade
Day 25: Ship
I have a hard time with differentiation Between getting coffee   And let's demolish 3 bottles of wine! Between getting inspired   And let's spend holidays seeing the country in a van! Between getting butterflies   And let's kiss on the face right now! Surely, There must be spectrums I can bisect   Splitting    Platonic Love from Romantic    Sensory from Sensual    And Casual from Committed But they are not immediately apparent to me. Regardless of type All ships must be properly cared for, So I will patch the holes Man the sails, And try not to rock the boats Too terribly hard.
Continue reading...
20
Coldness seeps and ebbs, Flowing like ocean tides, Waves dragging brine and grit behind, Tears washing away the day. Candles flicker in the dark, Casting shadows across the scars, Catching the gleam of her rings, Cascades of iridescence falling from her eyes. She's hollow now, A shell left on the beach. Hairline fractures bisect her being, As she tries to hold herself together. It's no use. She's always falling apart, Just below the surface, Ashamed of her weakness, Afraid to be turned away. She's always afraid to be forgotten.
0
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC
rj-cordae
Forgotten Seas
Coldness seeps and ebbs, Flowing like ocean tides, Waves dragging brine and grit behind, Tears washing away the day. Candles flicker in the dark, Casting shadows across the scars, Catching the gleam of her rings, Cascades of iridescence falling from her eyes. She's hollow now, A shell left on the beach. Hairline fractures bisect her being, As she tries to hold herself together. It's no use. She's always falling apart, Just below the surface, Ashamed of her weakness, Afraid to be turned away. She's always afraid to be forgotten.
Continue reading...
18
your audience of holy voyagers and voyeurs (yeah,yeah; all’em ain’t that holy) really, exactly whooo read, reads them reddish reeds you wrote? ok now here this: check each identifiable in and out, twice de minimumize who and where your paths crossed, take their scripts under your very first cheap kid microscope, read them close, find the warts, acne, their true distended identity (oops, natty) dissect, bisect, hell, vivisect their rhythms ruthlessly with the greatest of gentility, learn their think smell their stink assign them a color and determine the height of the footstool pedestal they could be eligible to be placed or trod upon to the work, go do the work, assay the the intangible, ascertaining the physical and the mental of the neuronal tissue dandelion connectivity to determine what is this mutual attraction and if they live thousands of miles away start planning your journey right away! they are your blood they are your family they are your rib and they keep you company in the garden of Eden (Applelites only) how likely they are a long lost sibling you never knew you had depending on your temperament, offer to marry them if they’re orphans, adopt them! bring them e v e n closer than an enemy legitimize the organize, stick out a hand, all the rest will follow naturally
0
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 8:14 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
March Madness: k n o w your audience
your audience of holy voyagers and voyeurs (yeah,yeah; all’em ain’t that holy) really, exactly whooo read, reads them reddish reeds you wrote? ok now here this: check each identifiable in and out, twice de minimumize who and where your paths crossed, take their scripts under your very first cheap kid microscope, read them close, find the warts, acne, their true distended identity (oops, natty) dissect, bisect, hell, vivisect their rhythms ruthlessly with the greatest of gentility, learn their think smell their stink assign them a color and determine the height of the footstool pedestal they could be eligible to be placed or trod upon to the work, go do the work, assay the the intangible, ascertaining the physical and the mental of the neuronal tissue dandelion connectivity to determine what is this mutual attraction and if they live thousands of miles away start planning your journey right away! they are your blood they are your family they are your rib and they keep you company in the garden of Eden (Applelites only) how likely they are a long lost sibling you never knew you had depending on your temperament, offer to marry them if they’re orphans, adopt them! bring them e v e n closer than an enemy legitimize the organize, stick out a hand, all the rest will follow naturally
Continue reading...
64
I'm a ********* Agony is ecstasy so wound me Cut every part of me that failed to please Watch my hands swimming on those cuts like your fingers sliding through your hair Feed me more for I'm a zombie feeding on myself Savor every moment because I won't stand tall to go down again Crack me wide open to find no part of me crying in pain Knife your name all over me and peel like an artist disowning her sickest masterpiece One doesn't bleed love and nothing you did could **** the you inside me It was love that got me ready to bleed for your delight Love was when I refused to fight Bisect my heart in two I die in love with you Drink your fill like a vampire before you hand me to the pyre Love was when I surrendered to please your desire
0
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
atript-abhinav
Die In Love With You
I'm a ********* Agony is ecstasy so wound me Cut every part of me that failed to please Watch my hands swimming on those cuts like your fingers sliding through your hair Feed me more for I'm a zombie feeding on myself Savor every moment because I won't stand tall to go down again Crack me wide open to find no part of me crying in pain Knife your name all over me and peel like an artist disowning her sickest masterpiece One doesn't bleed love and nothing you did could **** the you inside me It was love that got me ready to bleed for your delight Love was when I refused to fight Bisect my heart in two I die in love with you Drink your fill like a vampire before you hand me to the pyre Love was when I surrendered to please your desire
Continue reading...
15
Your face had only the eyes, when you flew backwards, hovering like a humming bird. There was no absolute, hoisting the beheaded god. In transience I will meet you in air and shed the body. In mouth-hole you put all your wisdom, to bisect the ****** house. Violence creeps into the roses. They droop and bleed. I will talk to burgundy-black moon, not to leave footprints on my face. My lips are going to catch the stolen kisses.
0
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
satsih-verma
A Dying Hymn
Your face had only the eyes, when you flew backwards, hovering like a humming bird. There was no absolute, hoisting the beheaded god. In transience I will meet you in air and shed the body. In mouth-hole you put all your wisdom, to bisect the ****** house. Violence creeps into the roses. They droop and bleed. I will talk to burgundy-black moon, not to leave footprints on my face. My lips are going to catch the stolen kisses.
Continue reading...
15
river wakes lapping grain freighters barge and bisect Danube after dark
0
Aug 14, 2023
Aug 14, 2023 at 1:38 AM UTC
ryan-olearyuu
River Haiku
river wakes lapping grain freighters barge and bisect Danube after dark
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3
I sit observing all those strangers scurrying from events occurring during the day. Still stuck in place, I guard this space securing the most unsecured spots. In a daze I look away to see nature ruling the distant landscape. Trees with no leaves only spindly fingers form wooden web like structures, competing for space with their sisters and brothers who sport full bodied broccoli colors. White cumulus clouds streak across a turquoise sky racing other grayer layered stratus and cirrus vapors. I long to follow, flying as fast or faster than those amorphous beauties. My pupils contract coming back quickly so I can focus on where my attention is supposed to be. However, my mind wanders and my eyes follow. Weird humming wires bisect the skies. Gone for a moment, I force myself to return. I hear next to nothing. My sight affirms said silence. Closer than my cloudy kin a flattop building mimics blacktop shapes and colors. Cars clutter the cigarette strewn parking surface. The gravely parking lot cracks like a fault line leaving little fractures where thin green plants perk their heads up and out, sprouting from the concrete covered earth. Near day’s end I find my focus again. Strange reflections wobble in dark windows as employees drive in to replace their almost friends. The shift ends and I follow strangers out. The herd thins as we diverge on different streets taking our own roads home. Nature follows me back to the hotel sweet, then to sleep, and finally into my dreams.
0
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
graff1980
Untitled
I sit observing all those strangers scurrying from events occurring during the day. Still stuck in place, I guard this space securing the most unsecured spots. In a daze I look away to see nature ruling the distant landscape. Trees with no leaves only spindly fingers form wooden web like structures, competing for space with their sisters and brothers who sport full bodied broccoli colors. White cumulus clouds streak across a turquoise sky racing other grayer layered stratus and cirrus vapors. I long to follow, flying as fast or faster than those amorphous beauties. My pupils contract coming back quickly so I can focus on where my attention is supposed to be. However, my mind wanders and my eyes follow. Weird humming wires bisect the skies. Gone for a moment, I force myself to return. I hear next to nothing. My sight affirms said silence. Closer than my cloudy kin a flattop building mimics blacktop shapes and colors. Cars clutter the cigarette strewn parking surface. The gravely parking lot cracks like a fault line leaving little fractures where thin green plants perk their heads up and out, sprouting from the concrete covered earth. Near day’s end I find my focus again. Strange reflections wobble in dark windows as employees drive in to replace their almost friends. The shift ends and I follow strangers out. The herd thins as we diverge on different streets taking our own roads home. Nature follows me back to the hotel sweet, then to sleep, and finally into my dreams.
Continue reading...
5