"lancelot" poems
I was relaxed, and deep in thought
The type of talk that silence brought
When just in earshot it rocked,
tick tock
tick tock
"Must be a clock"
I told myself and resumed my thought
Though as the seconds passed I could not,
Despite the will with which I fought
Do to its incessant knock
Tick tock
Tick tock
I searched for the clock
Unable to find the train I sought
I grew more and more distraught
With each and every tick and tock
That find the clock, I could not
As the silence grew more fraught
With the knock,
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
I knew the pain of Lancelot
On and on it ticked and tocked
I cursed at the unseen dreadnought
It no longer merely mocked
But each and every tick and tock
Became an unseen onslaught
TICK TOCK
TICK TOCK
T'was 11 o'clock,
When my heart felt the gunshot
Though the shots I could not block
And on and on the bullets poured
Further into the fray I bored
Each foot a cinderblock
Weighed by war
I slowly walked
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
How I'd make it answer for
Alas
With little blood left to speak for Desperately I implored
"Restrain your hands that caused such gore;
We need not fight evermore!"
But when I heard the ceaseless knock
Tick tock
Tick tock
I new my words had been ignored
And slowly collapsed to the floor
****** and bludgeoned when I hit bed rock, I had still found no clock
But tick and tock it had forgot
The church bell rang t'was 12 o'clock,
Though mortal wounds the seconds wrought
I no longer was distraught
And as I lay in the hemlock
It occurred in my last thoughts
I would miss the beating knock
tick..., tock...
tick..., tock...
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
To W. R. B.
And so, to you, who always were
Perseus, D'Artagnan, Lancelot
To me, I give these weedy rhymes
In memory of earlier times.
Now all those careless days are not.
Of all my heroes, you endure.
Words are such silly things! too rough,
Too smooth, they boil up or congeal,
And neither of us likes emotion --
But I can't measure my devotion!
And you know how I really feel --
And we're together. There, enough . . .
7.7k
The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad sir Lancelot du Lac.
When first he came to Camelot
The orphan knight, Sir Lancelot
Did prove his worth to Arthur's Court
In jousting, and such noble sport
And with his charm and courtly grace,
His confidence and handsome face,
He won the heart of Guinevere,
And so he found his heart's one fear.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
In tournaments and deeds of arms,
He never fell to earthly harms.
His Lady's scarf about his breast,
He held aloft his knightly chest
And for her honor always strove,
And worshiped her with courtly love.
But she is wed, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
Beneath a tree, the young knight slept
And one day, four queens on him crept,
The chief of them, Morgan Le Fay.
With magic, they stole him away.
A choice they begged of him to make,
That one of them his heart should take.
But love is strong. They had no luck
In tempting Lancelot du Lac.
When Melegans stole Guinevere
A cart, Sir Lancelot did steer
To reach the hold where she was kept,
Then toward the treacherous knight he leapt.
He bested him with slash and blow,
But to Sir Lancelot's great woe
His Lady simply laughed in jest
And saw no honor in his quest,
For he arrived upon a cart.
Thus, broken was the young knight's heart,
And in a rage he left the place.
He longed just for his Lady's grace.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
So when he quested for the Grail
He made a promise he would fail.
He said he'd not love Guinevere,
But as he spoke, he shed a tear.
He knew one day their love would end
The table round, and hurt their friends.
So when this promise he did break
The land of Camelot did quake.
For Agrivan, King Arthur, told
His wife did love Lancelot bold
And Arthur sent her to the pyre
To end her sinful love, in fire.
But Lancelot, his queen, did save
And Arthur fell into the grave
And all the knights of Table Round
Were torn apart, could not be bound.
And thus the fall of Camelot
Was caused by one Sir Lancelot.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of bold Sir Lancelot du Lac.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
Oh, come again to Astolat!
I will not ask you to be kind.
And you may go when you will go,
And I will stay behind.
I will not say how dear you are,
Or ask you if you hold me dear,
Or trouble you with things for you
The way I did last year.
So still the orchard, Lancelot,
So very still the lake shall be,
You could not guess—though you should guess—
What is become of me.
So wide shall be the garden-walk,
The garden-seat so very wide,
You needs must think—if you should think—
The lily maid had died.
Save that, a little way away,
I’d watch you for a little while,
To see you speak, the way you speak,
And smile,—if you should smile.
5.3k
I have wearied of grand romances
Of deep sighs and swooning trances
Of doting gentlemen’s advances
And all manner of courtship play
I am tired of love confessions
And of dizzied, dazed professions
And of unrestrained obsessions
I grow sicker day by day
I once dreamed of adoration
Went quite mad for veneration
Laughing, flirting with temptation
The queen in Camelot
The lonely, lovely Guinevere
Dainty-masked with girlish fear
But when King Arthur wasn’t near
Dreaming of Sir Lancelot
These days I want no noble knight
Despite my seeming helpless plight
I wish to set myself aright
And tread upon the ground
Yet here I am, pedestal-high
Too close to the dazzling sky
As my life keeps passing by
And boys keep running round
I’ve let myself grow much too proud
Drew up arrogance from the crowd
Heard the cheering, bright and loud
The queen in Camelot
And though I had my faithful Sir
Still my heart was all astir
With flying fancies, all a blur
For Guinevere and Lancelot
These fantasies have grown too old
I’d rather let my bed grow cold
For I have wearied of being told
“You are mine to keep”
Men have tired me to the core
Left me sad and sick and sore
And have turned into such a chore
And I’d much rather sleep
What blasphemy for a maiden fair
To toss such doting to the air
To turn away without much care
Though queen in Camelot
But I have withered, I have tired
Felt as if my brain’s been mired
And find not Arthur much desired
Nor dashing Lancelot
Is it so bad to want respite
From endless longing, day and night?
This constant charm becomes too trite
With ever staler tone
I only wish to rest a while
Recover from incessant guile
Forget the weight of lovers’ trial
And simply be alone
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
Through Love’s decree, with coy invite
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
How soon ye forget your sins laid bare
The Sangrail truth, the Heavenly light
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
With comely looks, a swaggering air
The greatest of all earthly knights
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
How easy to shun this dolorous affair
If ye honed instead your spiritual might
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
With glory from lands far and near
Ye took her heart and forthright
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
Le Morte Darthur, the kingdom’s despair
Was sealed upon the doleful night
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
I HAVE no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde,
Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle,
Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while;
Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind;
Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart:
Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon's light and the sun's
Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones,
Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart,
And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn,
To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier.
Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinevere;
And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn,
And the wood-woman, whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk;
And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore,
Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar,
I hear the harp-string praise them, or hear their mournful talk.
Because of something told under the famished horn
Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day,
To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dis may,
Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
2k
i used to think -
how disloyal,
and slovenly,
and unjust of you.
the great king loved you!
but i understand, now, what it's like,
to belong so totally with someone -
your arthur and
my sweetheart -
and to want someone so much that it makes your whole body hurt -
your lancelot and
my agony.
nine tenths of my heart is yours,
but the other part
is his through and through,
and it's going to be this way, always.
i may love you all i like but
i cannot escape him.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
My ancient Lancelot.
*Love is patient love is kind,
it kept no record
of wrong doing piling high."
Reminiscing my first poet, sigh;
sweet cane dust sprinkled
on a table's body inch by inch.
Tracings followed little food
reduced to crumbs
Saving hunger and thirst
for the last dance, Knight sought.
True lovers lost and found.
Come lovers unrequited long
find a new dancing floor
dance till the end of love.
I've saved the last dance
for an ancient true Knight
sought long and by and by.
A lifetime I've traveled hard
fed by my lover's light in eye.
It's time, see me renewed
in my new Hindu Knight's light
and sigh.
~~~~~~
By Karijinbba
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 9:14 PM UTC
*Insane, insane what follows old
This tragedy you're about to be told.
Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
It is love that we most of all bequeath.
Amongst green pastures grows a flowering field
One not tainted by what this life yields.
Somewhere in the withered forget-me-knots
It lives long enough to be what it ought.
A shining prince upon a silver steed
Riding home to find that which was decreed.
Nothing more than just a thought
Of something born here in Camelot.
Oh mastery of misery art thou my friend?
Do we have so much to gather or defend?
Send us upon this grievous plain
To battle for all that must be regained.
Oh ported soul of Arthur’s gallant lot
Send to us the dear Sir Lancelot.
He be the bravest of all hearts,
His bravery known right from the start.
He hast no legend braved in fear
Doing the right by his lady Guinevere.
Life deals us such a broken art
Of a finger painted love here in Camelot.
The quest be of ill fated charms
Where love survives the coat of arms.
To be so brave is to be a slave
Fighting for the thing we crave.
For no coat of arms can delay
Love’s onslaught once on display.
For to pour the grail back into the flask
Would be to hold love as a captured task.
For ‘tis love that captures all at last
And nothing loved can truly pass.
Though the lance laid silent Lover Lancelot
His secret survives him here in Camelot.*
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
My lips will whisper love unto thine heart
For my burden weighs heavy on my soul
I will invade your dreams when we're apart
Even by pain of death I'll pay the toll
Why not let Arthur choose another bride
For they stand in line to become his queen
I can't walk away, for God knows I've tried
It's you and I and Arthur in between
I took an oath to always serve my king
Even if it demands my final breath
But I couldn't have known what love would bring
And now I fear our love means certain death
I would give my life for all I hold dear
If Lancelot could be with Guinevere
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 10:34 AM UTC
Eyes of brown
Heart of gold
Sending love
I've been told.
Across the waves
between the vibes.
Written on paper
by the scribes.
Affairs of love in
history gone by.
Lover's seduced
by blink of eye.
Romeo and Juliet.
Cleopatra's Antony.
Guinevere and Lancelot.
And no less, you and me.
Loved and lusted
Sweet as wine.
Stories told
throughout time.
Love goes on
and on my dear.
Open your heart,
put away fear.
For love's soft vision
may well come.
When unsuspected,
heart strings thrum.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
There once was a TV network
That made me want to exult
But now I am sad and despondent
And it’s mostly Steven Moffat’s fault
I enthusiastically started Doctor Who
Who’s chronology is twisted and bizarre
It seemed like such fun to travel through time and space with a man
Who used a blue box as his car
But soon the companions’ aspirations
To travel to planets and stars
Were crushed by the Void, lost love, and gargoyles
And the Doctor is lonely and scarred.
Not yet wise, I began watching Sherlock
His deduction left me amazed and bamboozled
He and John drank some tea, and solved crimes with glee
Although each case took quite some perusal.
They lived happily with their cool flat decorum
Mrs. Hudson made biscuits below
Then along came the menacing, mean Moriarty
There was nothing that he didn’t know.
Because of the fallacy that Sherlock’s a fake
He’s dead and John’s in the doldrums
The only thing done to commemorate him
Are John’s “I do believe in Sherlock Holmes”
Hoping for a show that was boisterous and happy
Instead of the peaceful, yet sad
I turned to the medieval Merlin
who was quite a cheery lad
He worked for the king’s son, Arthur
who eclectically chose his knights
There were sirs Lancelot, Gwaine, and Leon
The bravest people in sight.
Merlin used his job as camouflage,
His secret he did not divulge
for if they all knew he was a powerful wizard
In his execution King Uther would indulge.
Since Merlin’s destiny was to keep the prince safe
He faced many scary things
He would cower in fear, but when Arthur was near
He felt brave enough to sing
Merlin’s feelings for Arthur were obvious
But does Arthur feel the same way?
When Arthur deigns to exchange dialogue with him
It instantly brightens his day.
But Lancelot died doing Merlin’s job
And Arthur is in love with Gwen
Morgana, a wizard who was once Merlin’s friend
Is evil and wants Camelot dead.
So the Doctor is lonely and growing old
Sherlock left John all alone
And Merlin feels guilty and outcast
They’ve lost all the good they’ve ever known.
And I am left crying and angry.
How could the writers do this to me?
But still, they’re the best shows I’ve ever watched
And I’ll always love the BBC.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
She tests her own being.
A legend loved by all.
With her and Lancelot betraying
Destiny, the kingdom would fall.
Can we rewrite love?
Can we rewrite scripture?
Can we rise above?
Can we find our picture?
My dear Guinevere,
No more nights of tears,
Make the right decision,
Please, my lady, my dear?
We had a perfect plan.
We should have rode,
We should have ran,
We should have never spoken again.
Tearing down her future
They would burn her at the stake
As love and loyalty shared no shelter
Their dreams together, they couldn't make
It's now too late
It's now time to cry
It's now the last goodbye
It's not like you didn't try
But lest we die...
My dear Guinevere,
You have nothing to fear,
Your Lancelot is here.
This love story will withstand the years.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
there are significant sings
that tomorrow is near
and she try's hard to be
as small as possible so she wont get noticed
when it gets here with all
its wide awake hangers on
the blind to all else masses trying to get to work
she pours you a tepid coffee
clears you a spot next to her
behind the dumpster
her cool eyes betrayed the moment
and set fire to the heels
of the urgent messenger
who riding a pale sick horse
rode promptly into the night
becoming as lost as her in
the complex visions
her open shirt feasts on your eyes
it breeds on the verge of your conscious mind
and sends its small creatures invading
your contradictions with the
unfailing reasons to fail
it breeds an urge to touch things not your own
and they taught you in school to
be polite and ask first
contradictions are the devilish whim of the world
once the talk of the town
she took her tattered beauty queen crown
and stole away
down the alley
her dozen stray cats are her minions
the loading dock her empire
and she is happy
and that's more than all the
fanatical fashion rich girls got
she sketches masterpieces
in a spiral wide ruled notebook
fine line art that tells stories
the stories never end
the people in them never age or change
they never get sad and move away
never stop being who they were that day
never stop being who you thought they were
never get angry and say mean things
they never like mom and dad
we go to shooters lane
and get her natural benefits package
and to the broken house
there is nothing missing this is how it ends
here in the dank darkness of shooters game
her knight in shinning armour is Lancelot
she can almost see him in
the pale light greasy and thin
hangs from the ceiling
and is disturbed by flickers
like a modern candle
you appear to the bright sunlight
steps away from the kingdom of night
miles away from where you just stepped from
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
When you were bold Sir Lancelot
and I was a lady fair
we cast our fortune to the wind
and love was free as air
When you were old Sir Lancelot
and I was a lady fair
I never thought there would come a time
when you would not be there
When you were gone Sir Lancelot
I missed you being near
you left a sad and grieving maid
your lonely Guinevere
Apr 2, 2023
Apr 2, 2023 at 12:47 PM UTC
LIVEN ON THE RAZORS EDGE
Remember how we used to dream
the things that we were not
I was your knight in shining armor
in our concrete Camelot
We played so many different parts
like actors on a stage
We’d escape through picture magazines
just by turning page to page
Back when we had nothing to lose
by taking a chance by breaking the rules
When we were dead end kids living on the razors edge
and I was King of the streets and you were queen of the avenue
When we were dead end kids living on the razors edge
our castle was a run-down candy store our kingdom the theatre Bijou
And it’s good seeing you again
though it’s been so many years
Since I played your Lancelot
and you my Guinevere
I’m glad to see those special times
neither one of us forgot
And that we no long need to dreams
the things that we are not
Back when we had nothing to lose
by taking a chance by breaking the rules
When we were dead end kids living on the razors edge
and I was King of the streets and you were queen of the avenue
When we were dead end kids living on the razors edge
our castle was a run-down candy store our kingdom the theatre Bijou
sp-theatre / English / theater American English
By VjKelly 1993 © for my song RAZORS EDGE
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
--To W. G. S.
The blackbird sang, the skies were clear and clean
We bowled along a road that curved a spine
Superbly sinuous and serpentine
Thro' silent symphonies of summer green.
Sudden the Forth came on us--sad of mien,
No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line:
A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign
Of life or death, two spits of sand between.
Water and sky merged blank in mist together,
The Fort loomed spectral, and the Guardship's spars
Traced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze:
We felt the dim, strange years, the grey, strange weather,
The still, strange land, unvexed of sun or stars,
Where Lancelot rides clanking thro' the haze.
1.3k
When I was a little tot
I wished to be Sir Lancelot
I leapt and pranced
And danced all day
I slayed great dragons
And drank from flagons
Passing the time away
As if I were a knight at play
Yes, I wished I was Sir Lancelot
But alas, one day
I learned that I am not
The great Sir Lancelot
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
Eyes of brown
Heart of gold
Sending love
I've been told.
Across the waves
between the vibes.
Written on paper
by the scribes.
Affairs of love in
history gone by.
Lover's seduced
by blink of eye.
Romeo and Juliet.
Cleopatra's Antony.
Guinevere and Lancelot.
And no less, you and me.
Loved and lusted
Sweet as wine.
Stories told
throughout time.
Love goes on
and on my dear.
Open your heart,
put away fear.
For love's soft vision
may well come.
When unsuspected,
your heart will thrum.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 12:00 AM UTC
The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch
Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:
Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels’ tales.
They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.
They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.
Published by Celtic Twilight, Celtic Lifestyles, Boston Poetry and Auldwicce. Few legends have inspired more poetry than those of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These legends have their roots in a far older Celtic mythology than many realize. Here the names are ancient and compelling. Arthur becomes Artur or Artos, “the bear.” Bedivere becomes Bedwyr. Lancelot is Llenlleawc, Llwch Lleminiawg or Lluch Llauynnauc. Merlin is Myrddin. And there is an curious intermingling of Welsh and Irish names within these legends, indicating that some tales (and the names of the heroes and villains) were in all probability “borrowed” by one Celtic tribe from another. For instance, in the Welsh poem “Pa gur,” the Welsh Manawydan son of Llyr is clearly equivalent to the Irish Mannanan mac Lir. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, wild hunt, Halloween, Artur, Bedwyr, Valerin, Valynt, Gawain, Owain, Devon, Wales
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 12:18 AM UTC
After a quest spent moralizing his point all the way home
After leaving lance, buckler, and steed at the door
After a few hefty flagons of old school mead
A Sir Lancelot turns to an empty bar stool
And decrees:
Whether ***** or damsel
It matters not to me.
Luckily I never have to choose.
They’re similar ***** you see.
Coins or courage to open
The velvet doors between legs.
Towers of ******
Which isn’t saying
Only ****** reside in towers
Just why the ones I free?
Oh bards sing unto me
A song fit for my misery.
For no one’s figured the secret
That it’s only the armor they need to see.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
**** all the children get a chance at the sandpit... only the dog collared ones attempting wrestling matches of biceps tonguing rhetoric touring waggle get the pulpit... kinda **** if you ask me: said sir sacrifice-a-lot when sir lancelot married; but all the **** happened after the ukrainian ***** it was the russian bourgeoise one... you forget you dim-witted bolshevik... the russian one... the russian one! not the ukrainian one! ah crap... too late, the crimson lunar eclipse from edinburgh to st. petersburg gave me mythological charisma; endeavour of the readers who can’t remember my tourism earning the year 2007 as distinct: i can earn an awareness of lying about the jealousy i have for the century of being a musketeer defending louis vix; ja athos! ein athos! i’m athos.... wrinkly & masturbated ******** toss! hey ** hey ** we dig dig dig dig dig, it's what we like to do... coal mine.... coal mine... coal mine... with a millionth diamond... we dig dig dig dig dig... hej ** do lasu by sie szło... high ** high ** unto abreit macht frei we go.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
I gingerly place my hands on your silk back
as you climb aboard the
maypole
but is this right?
is this
True?
What is True?
why does my gentle heart flutter at the thought
of your
naked
Body
on top of mine?
Will you stop me?
will you help me save my honor?
I can only be so chivalrous
my steed can only gallop so many miles
Why does my wicked mind turn to the image
of you
with round—bare
eyes staring into mine
as our lips
Interlock
in a Loving embrace?
I wish—
I wish to walk side by side
with you
along the ocean shore
a beautiful bay steed for us both
I want that to be reality
Deep in my lifeforce
I only desire to defend you
with my mystical sword
for I have no desire to wield my organic sword
it has the power to betray and harm
as it did for Lancelot
Should the spirits take me
will you stop and assist me
in maintaining my honor?
if they take us both
shall we fall off the Edge of the World?
shall we approach the Gates of Oblivion
along the shores of Acheron and Styx?
Why must my mind and heart be
in constant warfare?
the Barbarians against the Gallant Knights.
whom shall win?
My knights are indeed heroic
but the base passions of the barbarians
give keenness to their axes and spears
And what about you milady?
will you stop yourself
knowing
my honor?
I pray that you will kiss me
and Love shall take
Us
along a pleasant path.
but - forgive me
I cannot
trust
you yet.
I long for the day when I can
Feel
Your hands
intertwined-in-mine-like-vines
as you smile into my eyes
not as a lover
but as a
Companion
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 5:25 PM UTC
A thought provoking rage
boils beneath my bones.
The fury that spawns words
still choking behind fear.
I cradle my guilt.
I want to lash out,
exert my deviance & manipulate,
pull the strings of the puppets I create.
The strength in me is cruel.
I claw & pick my flesh
to distract myself from madness.
The kind queen feels dead inside
trampled by mistrust & abuse.
All of my fight withdraws to protect her
& leaves me frozen.
My kingdom at the mercy of men.
Will divided.
The desire to thrive
& the yearning to submit.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC