Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
SøułSurvivør Sep 2015
---

i

blue grey clouds
of crushed
velvet

sunlight
tears
the
seams


ii

embers of
delicate peach
ignite flames
of fuchsia

the orb of
sun burns colors
away to ashes

blown into floes
of white
mare's
tails


iii

tiny bird
settles restless
on the
highest
branch

flits
away


iv

wind
through
the weathered stones
cries then whispers

luring
the children
who lie within our ribs
to break free
and sing
songs
of
play


v

mamalaria
cactus
wears her
wreath
of
pale
lavender
flowers

sings to
her babes
clustered
below

saguaro
listens



soulsurvivor
(C) 9/13/2015
beautiful day rises up
out of the ashes
of a flaming
sunrise

---

To a special friend...
... thank you!
My hubsy and I went for a moonlit stroll
graceful billowy branches gently ripple above us
Black swans sailing in the moonlight

Squawking sounds of katydids, crickets, frogs
sawing zzz's and occasional loud drone of
rap music cut through, punctuated the
brisk night air

As we meandered our shadows
grew taller, towering temple steeples
stretching across patchy luminescent streets

We even caught a fleeting glimpse of our
silver sillhouettes superimposed
like Milky Way gods over the heavens

I looked at my darling spouse, heart palpitating
my hand tucked cozily into his

"We are Vast Beings David," I whispered tenderly
"So much more that we realize."
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Waiting for spring to return this winter’s day.
Straining to touch warm breezes of the past.
Caught in this prison of gray and white.
Wishing to break these dark chains that hold me.

Remnants of fall, crumpled like brown paper on the ground.
Straws of pale brown growing up through the snow, ******* it dry.
Seeds and freeze dried fruit lay scattered about under trees.
Bare limbs and stalks drip with liquid glass.

Trees hanging bare, gray in lifelessness.
Winter birds call out, single in their pursuit of leftover meals.
Tracks of animals unknown dot the landscape with patchwork.
Waves of ridges etched in white lead off to nowhere.

Sparse, sun filled days bring brief glimpses of hope.
With the promise of warmth waiting to banish the cold
that holds me to my past and this existence;
waiting for spring to return and thaw this frozen heart.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Dead Rose One Apr 2018
3:15am

<•>

unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)


each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
but
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore

nope-u-dope

the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again

4/27/18

~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
https://hellopoetry.com/sheepskyny/
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
Tea Dec 2013
He is that high, dazed and alive
When you spend hours stealing
Glimpses at the stars
Like keys wrapped around a promise
To free you from these bars
Limitations placed so certainly
On top of you on top of me
I seek my way out
Like a star gazer seeks understanding
I’m planning on playing my hand just right
Putting you next to me
King of hearts at my side
Or maybe you are a joker,
Either way put on your poker face
We have life and space, set no pace
Like untimed steps under
A fall to far

Sing to me a jazzy song
From a time that’s far,
Dance with me
Dance along, move your feet
Make no promise you can’t keep
Just feel it
It’s like freedom but on fire
Like trust without certainty
Acrobat without a wire
Like letting go
A grand release
Like fearlessness
A found voice to speak
Passions pushed blood to cheek
Blushing past shades of pink
Pull you in, close to me
Fearless in you and me
Just fearless
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
I’ve been inside my head for all my life, listening to the voice within, trying to make peace with silent demons lying in wait.

These intruders remain, unwanted and uninvited,
wishing and praying for someone to banish them from my dreams.

Fearful moments spent hiding in dreams, amusing no one,
wondering, waiting and watching for weakness.

Brief glimpses of hope, wishing away the moments, days, weeks and years until now waiting, watching for life to come and sweep me away.

Living to die and dieing to live, making my way through this life.
Treading through too many souls for me to see my way,

Could you be the hope sent to free me from past haunts, my love, my all?
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
I caught fleeting glimpses of her throughout my night,
Like she'd wandered from a beatific dream into the half-light.

And I sighed,
For a girl had caused me to pause and blink;
Astonished by her tender magnificence,
I dared to hope to think.
What could I say?

By the Spanish Arch as daylight subsided
I sought her amongst the droves of the intoxicated.

Hanging around near the end of the day,
Waiting for the crowd to come out and play.
She lingered by the water's edge,
With another group, their tale yet unsaid.
A megaphone blared her brazen attitude into the air,
A bottle of Buckfast was her chalice to bear;
She supped the vicious liqueur,
It's contents not as dark as her charcoal hair.
Latina. Wild eyes.
What could I say?

Then the guards came
and scared us all away.

A street-party was going down in The Latin Quarter, downtown,
The tides of people made it hard to get around.
Deftly, I waded through the massive crowds
to find my friends in the tavern above.
Later, across the way in an infamous pub,
She resurfaced from the masses, megaphone still up,
With an expression that said: Wanna play?

Her eyes spoke volumes of venturous exploits,
This night but a chapter of expedition in a book of conquest.

Those pupils that glimmered
had something magic in them:
A soft disregard for the world
and calm anticipation.
What should I have said?

Hispanic allure is hard to cure,
And it reminds me so much of one other;
I'll never forget her, despite my bit speaking to her.

Anything. Anything at all.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2015
(I love) Dignity

tearing words apart,
a part
of  a joy I cannot
explain or share exactly


knew a man once,
forty two years gone,
died too soon enough,
soon enough,
he and I will be
the same age

this man
a duck out of water,
a stranger in an adopted land,
trouble-stooped, a hard life, well lived,
never bent,
dignified in every step

I cannot remember him
ever kissing me, tousling my hair,
holding my hand, loving me in
a manner I wanted beyond  desperately

yet here I am, 5:22 am
weeping tears recalling him
in glimpses long ago seen,
adding them all up to get a
single sum

Dignity.

tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot/explain,
share precisely


dig
in
to
my
chambered memory storage units,
unlocking those rusted locks with freshly oiled
tears
and loving the dignity he exampled

to the son he could not kiss, hand hold,
but taught him the one lesson, digging deep
to respect life and stand apart,
stand with dignity.

all else will follow

the son kissed his children plenty,
in a vain attempt to make up his missed
homework

now the grandfather,
now the grandfather
is still kissing
his last hope, his newest babes,
rolling on the floor,
so silly kissing belly buttons,
smelling their skin repeatedly,

in a manner most
undignified

still weeping
the son,
he tries to sort it out

and forgives and does not forget
the man that taught dignity
in everything,
even, especially,
in slow dying,

forty two years is a long time to wait
to weep.

it takes two hands in the dark
repeatedly
to collect all the waiting patiently
wetness and the
accompanied sniffles,
so undignified,
the son smiles at himself
declaring unabashedly,
digging out from himself
a poem, a self-reflection
on time tarnished reflections
clear enough to make him
sob,
believing

I love dignity.
for my father...
Jordan Barrie Sep 2015
Boundless energy around us,
Stretched to snare the senses.
Shaped and bound to our life-force.
No barriers, or defenses.
Limitless interplay, front
row seats shall we say.
To astounding cosmic displays.
Consider what a day holds;~
Glimpses of magnificence
In the eyes of the beholder,
Fear not insignificance.
Take grip of your awareness
Exchanging energy,
Is inherent in us.
Throw a love curve ball. . .
Await your reciprocating shower.
those stars, they fall
forever.
They deal not in glamour.
Casually causing us
humans to stutter and mumble.
Let not, your heart labor,
Loves home-run rests
Patiently,
On your minds table.
Prana for everything,
This **** ain't no fable.
haley Oct 2017
when she was eight years old
she
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes  like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach

it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
(self proclaiming)
for she trickles with stars

when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot.
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage
she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues
Benjamin Apr 2018
I could hold it in a breath,
bury it inside my chest,
watch the cilia react,
a current sent with each contact;
alas, I cannot keep it in
considering the broken skin;
with crimson ink, this razorblade’s
a fountain pen, I scrawl away:

“Hear me now, in sight of God,
first all is still, then comes the flood.”
The little blackbird hushed her song—
she could sense something was wrong—
pitchforked lightning bent the trees
and fireworks consumed the leaves
where my better angels hanged—
this, the Province of the ******.

If you were kept inside my chest,
you’d have slipped out with the rest,
while the vultures had their fill
picking piece by piece until
I’m left bone-bleached in the sun—
all the others turned to run;
but you were steadfast through it all,
from the spire to the fall.

The willow whispers from outside
where my history resides,
ghosts of angels hide beneath
the wilted branches of that tree—
I still catch glimpses of the scythe
from the corner of my eye,
but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here
in the shadow of the Reaper.
Clarity has claws
Within her pouncing, padding paws
Laps up goat's milk raw
Grapples a teddy bear to songs
Tied to a robe's string
Well, she plays with literally everything-
Her eyes say exactly what she means.

No ****, Clarity is a cat I call to come back
I find myself pleading for her return-
With the promise of a salmon snack,
In exchange for lessons learned,
But I only capture glimpses of her white and black
As she flashes by the doorway,
Always only doing things her own way.

Since her trust is hard-earned,
I coax her cleansing burn.
She climbs up my bare leg
With her razor sharp needles,
First thing in the morning without any warning

Clarity,
Why did I beg you to come near? ! don't tear !
I only wished for your soft vibrations in my ear !
It's so impossible to change your nature
I wasn't bleeding before you were here, but your message is pure

You only come running when you're hungry!

&Would you really eat me if I died?
The way you watch with such wild eyes,
(I'm sad to know I shouldn't be surprised)
Your tapping tail  compromises your position,
Your crystal clear intention
To play with your prey before you ****** and eat them

Clarity,
embodying the way her name hides and smiles, pounces for a scream
as if she were mean!
Sneaks off to surprise her  next unsuspecting victim
-
Tummy full,
Warm purr, a welcome buzz
She comes, she plays with, she eats my ego, she loves, she kneads, she purrs, she leaves, I plead

ah, Clarity

-Hayleo Liz
#hayleoliz
#hayleolizpoetry
Poetria Feb 2018
The only love I want to feel anymore
is the love of the Sea, of the trees, of mountains and rainbows and beautiful buildings, flowers and strangers and poetry, animals and books and art and everything alive,
everything I can only catch glimpses of, everything I need, which I don't have.

I need the love of the Earth, not it's people.
I'll start writing more seriously after my exams in May, but here's something for now
I can only grab
glimpses, as she slides
her fingers deep
among her golden brown hair.

When her eyelashes spread,
black, thick,
from behind
a simple blink
catches my eye.
I loved her.

Before I even gazed upon her

I loved her

Before I was even dazed by her words of splendour

I loved her

Not for her ability to
charm others
as even though she just as often harmed others

Not for her straightforward intelligence
for she shared a forward thinking
dissidence

And not for her beauty & majesty did I love her

Because not far from often, did she bring cruelty and calamity too other that I did love

And when I loved her, it wasn’t because of her bountiful spirit

For when one drove responsibility towards her
she was both accountable and idyllic
her innate strength insurmountable & prolific

And my love did not come from her humble yet dominating origins

Hunters and gatherers roaming in forests

Nor her families evolution, amongst changing nations
into cultural irrigation, harvesting & cultivation

Yet my love was neither superficial

wrought by a feverish desire for atypical minerals

As it is evident she grew up to live lavishly, as if she were a daughter of kings and pharaohs, emperors and regents

Far from superficial
it went beyond my own existence
‘tis was it deep

And watching her grow up
yet older and slowly darker
it flooded me with a sense of grief

For that was the only side she showed me, and allowed others to see

But beyond the seas and ravines, ridges & fjords, she beamed

And that is how it felt for a time
her happiness distant and far gone

Looking back it’s blatant she was far from dormant

But I believe during that time she was merely misled

It took time to connect her heart with her head

And for a time it seemed she was finally ready to proceed

And that was all but my dream
for her

But in my heart, I knew she would waver and ultimately capitulate towards the darker times

I think, even though she was mature and grown

not enough time separated her from her home

a family always wanting to dominate and roam

The precedence was set
The credulous to fret

And even though it’s in her nature to align with basic instincts

I awaited,
like those in scriptures
for a sign
that leads her to brighter precincts.

Of this hope

it was something I dreamt about
until I was left awoke

It was a scathing cycle, hopes festered
with a heart broke

And in the depth of my despair
I was still convinced,
that behind her “politics” & warring nature with others,

that the woman I loved & dreamt, was still there

And you know what?

She convinced me

Not deceitfully nor schemingly
but seemingly
through action

She was on a phase of exploration
visiting foreign nations
and establishing relations

Truth was
All of it was a ruse
corrupting & enslaving
it was just another way of experssing her roots

Since than, I’ve never been lead astray, I knew it was just one big game

Even though I never believed that’s who she wholly
was and is

I can’t help but fell this is the way it is

Her being at an unbeknownst
war with herself

One that expresses all she can be
charming, beautiful, full of majesty

That she is the most complex & admiring existence in this universe

And another of opposite birth

One that can be harming, full of cruelty and calamity

And of this side I fear brings the other to her knees

And it ladens me with tears

But of this side of her
I fail to recognise,
as the woman I loved,
and it’s the only failure
I won’t rectify

The woman I loved,
the beautiful glimpses of allure,
that sparks through the impure and demeaning

Is the only meaning I can find within myself to breathe

But I’m lost
Lost in her mystery
Lost in the past

Because, I don’t see her anymore
giving rise to my love in the past tense

For I don’t know where she lives or with whom she spend her time
with

But of the worst fear I hold within my heart
is that the woman I loved never existed to begin with

That the idea of her was just a figment
of my idealistic mind

That all these years,
I conjured a fallacy of this supposed
“Benevolent”
side of her
so I could forgive what she had
imposed

And that I believe & fought so fereverently
in her
because in hope
it would bring life to her

Whatever the reality
I will never put cease
to my belief
that I will see her

Why?

Because the person
of whom I am talking about
is

Humanity

And she is the most beautiful thing I’ve known, regardless of her flaws
My take on personifying history X
Marla Jun 7
The moon changes subtly
Whenever we gaze away,
As our worries evolve swiftly
And our joys stay the same.

Perhaps she is a beacon
Baring light for our souls,
Enticing us into her depths
With glimpses of the heart's gold.

Blessed enchantress,
Affixed in a gentle way,
Dragging all from ached misery
And harboring us in her supple bay.

Reject ye thy sun's beating rays
& dispel lightning's spiteful bright tase,
Look only to the night sky as it glistens
If you seek to bask in nature's grace.
The Heart's Gold is more a subject of the soul than it is of heart.
Conor Martin Mar 2017
Symphony of Silence throughout the night
Doors and windows latched and locked tight
Sleeping softly as dreams ******
Troubled times when morals where subdued

We’re shoulder to shoulder with the **** or the ***,
Look at themn's with the same eyes, not down the barrel of a gun
The pasts only purpose now, Make the blind clearly see
The mistakes they made with their ******’ corrupt legacy

It’s quiet in the cities cobbled streets, the birds pick at first light
Emerge from their nests, Like our generation glimpses first sight
The new formed world from the rubble of this war
No emblem or flag can heal wounds this vicious or raw
Brick by Brick, The walls of Peace rose to keep in hate
There’s no more guerrillas in the street, Only as heads of State

The Family divided, A Birds clipped wing
This Island, Our home,
Shared together
or
Squandered Alone
The North is quite simply, The most politically and culturally frustrating place to live in, Beyond people feeling so self entitled believing that their culture is better than anyone else's we are cannon fodder to the representatives who regularly pit one side against the other in order to enhance personal and political agenda, Do not read this believing that one side is more or less guilty than the other. Both sides of the co-existing divide are guilty of things beyond the comprehension of the wider population.
I Wrote this in one of my moments of frustration.
first I smell myself.

the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings


then I smell herself.

sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure

then I smell our sharings.

lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh

then I smell our combinations.

the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem

it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite


Friday, March 29 2019
Aroma olp musk balsamic paprika sea salt ***** martini olp
ryn Jul 2014
A thousand things that run amok in my mind
Issues of present time that seem unkind
But if closely examined, this whirlwind of thoughts
Glimpses of rainbows, unicorns and gold-filled pots

Embedded within this maelstrom of uncertainty
Promise of niceties, of peace and serenity
Picturesque views of limitless artistry
Bring forth such joy and love and tranquility

Like a book of thoughts offering surrealistic images
A barrage of scenarios as I flip through the pages
Images that spoke of untold alternate endings
That is borne out of the heart's delicate beginnings

Engulfed in a blissful torrent of emotions
Caught submissive, in the riptide of affection
Frame by frame I could play, pause and repeat
Document joy and sadness, victory and defeat

Stories told that could happen in another plane
Series of eventual outcomes that I wish to gain
Wondering the things each other is doing
What is seen and what is heard, in this world you're living

Possibility of walking beside hand in hand
Dancing close, eyes in lock in a strange foreign land
Drive up into town to watch a romantic show
Sharing a milkshake or playing in the snow

Standing at your doorstep, an unannounced surprise
Bearing sunflowers and chocolates, for my beautiful prize
Running through a field, in love with frenzied craze
Lying on a mat, eyes locked in a deep, loving gaze

Two kissing silhouettes with a sunset backdrop
A scene, frozen in time that I don't want to stop
Marooned on an island, all deserted and bare
We bask in the sun and at the stars we stare

Sitting across of each other so close
In a cafe, whispering love and jousting toes
Being in love and intimate in a hot steamy shower
Sharing a Parisian landscape atop a well renowned tower

Snuggling close, sighing in the arms of my lover
Kissing through the night letting the heart take over
Cupping your cheeks, tasting the lips so sweet
Wake up sweet darling, good morning I would greet

Ferry you to work, plant a kiss that'll melt your knees
Be at the bay, together we look out into the seas
Talk on the phone and missing you right after
Texting endlessly, professing eternal love for each other

Such thoughts are brought by dreams and wishful thinking
Ideals that me give hope even when my boat is sinking
But I'll never ever stop wishing it'll all come true
Because my dreams were conjured for it was meant that I find you
AnxiousOcean Sep 2017
Because I haven't smiled lately;
I've waited long enough
till the sun gets tired.
Ye all say the day gives hope and warmth,
but I am awake for the whole night.
I see stars smiling on the edge of clouds.
A lovely moon hanging on the wide sea
and yet, I feel complete.
Since then I'd often sail through the night
and be delighted by the moon.

But...

It's not really the moon,
but the memory it has.
That was when I met someone
who's fond of the moon.
A great friend;
one that most would envy.
A caring one, a loyal one.

Everyone has a memory.
Everyone is a memory.
All of us are memories,
But you are the sweetest of them all.
I do not want you to remember me.
I want you to know
that you will always be remembered
for you're the best memory I have.

When you are sad,
look for the moon.
Look at the moon.
For the moon whispers memories,
short glimpses of happiness,
everything that was done.
Shared moments; past.
The moon remembers.

A reminder that you were not alone
and you will never be.
I made this poem for my friend who is celebrating her birthday today,
September 14, 2017. :)
Tammy M Darby Feb 2018
See little in the breath of life
Despair and strife shadow their hearts  
Cruelly and without mercy command their minds
Darkness touch is ever so blindingly sweet
The light of the living never meet
In the murmurings of a quivering night

Those who worship the God of Death
Seek no glimpses into a heart
Long ago they decreed
All love depart
Forfeiting that which made them human
Sacrificed on the altar of their cold demanding god

Those who worship the God of Death
Wander in silence and stealth
Caring not for influence, lineage or social plight
It is inconsequential
In a world where emanates no light


For them darkness touch is ever so blindingly sweet
The light of the living never meet
In the murmurings of a quivering night
When the world becomes silent and  emanates no light
Those who worship the God of Death delight.

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Feb. 2, 2018.
Hannah Christina Aug 2018
I catch glimpses and pieces of a story I need to be a part of
A word or an image will hit
a particular spot in my heart
and strangely resound
Ideas skip through my head that suddenly click.
I come alive
I bolt upright
"Yes!"
but then it is gone.  Upon closer examination,
nothing was there.
I don't even know what brought me to this train of thought in the first place.
A second ago it felt very important.

I shake myself off and try to fall back asleep.
A new existential crisis reveals itself to me every few days, and a new astonishing wonderful revelation about every month or two.  And half of a mystery solved lights up each night, but dissipates when I get close enough to study it.
Next page