"mysticism" poems
Earned under great spell of segregation,
With luster grand and blinding glimmers of false hope,
Standing like Trajan over his land, twice the spoils of war.
We must now thwart the hatred,
We must now look our brothers in the skin and decide if we can shoot them in the mouth.
Where lies the liberty in mysticism?
Why is this culture facilitating our schism,
And how now will we draw our party lines, or be done with them for a line in the sand?
Let us not fold in the face of dictatorship.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
Goodnight.
The evening has arrived and the Sun has become weary
Goodnight
The stars have come to reclaim the deepest blue
Speckling across the dark wide blanket of the cosmos
Goodnight
The daylight has faded and your energy has been taxed
Perhaps it was a productive day....
perhaps not
But the evening calls and the night follows
The mysticism and superstition is heralded by cricket calls
Reality becomes enervated now, rest your head on the pillow.
Nirvana inside of the null............................
Finally, Goodnight.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
Like a meme of activism
This women's coalition
Mothers
Sister
Friends
Pioneers and heroines
There's courage in their convictions
A guild of collectivism
They hold luncheons in their kitchens
Talk of abolition
Mysticism
Feminism
Of heroes and magnetism
Seduction
Love
Eroticism
They scream like banshees at a crucifixion
About injustice
Dereliction
Terrorism
A tradition underwritten
With symbolism
Drums
Violins
Musicians
They may be sitting
They may be knitting
Baking muffins
Folding linen
Running errands
Stuffing chickens
A juxtaposition to their ambition
Of inspiring the unwilling
Turning derision to optimism
Their fire and brimstone
Will have history rewritten
Freedom of reproduction
Liberalism
Animism
They have wisdom
Intuition
Rhythm
They are fearsome
This women's coalition
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
I observe you, infatuated with your subtle mysticism.
My eyes lay on your verdant beds like a swallow tail butterfly
dancing to the melody of your vibrations.
I feel you breathe with me.
I admire your crystal garden,
dripping down your coiled vines.
In each leaf, a reflection of your life.
Your origin is you as much as it is me.
We are sister and brother.
We are God.
Together we transcend.
Together, we become one entity as we experience
the beauty of consciousness.
You are my natural friend.
You thrive and stretch your veins outward
to kiss the hands that caress you.
Alive,
with me,
We coexist fluenty
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:51 PM UTC
I'm writing this poem to be ignored
like many of you
I enjoy being a poet
of keen irrelevance
a literary luminaire
of solitude
a lost writing ghost
a megalomaniac haunting himself
a waiting oracle
waiting
for the occult muse door mouse to tap dance
whispering night babble
or having a cooked chicken fly into my mouth
while i take searing snapshots
of erratic images
puzzling them into words
from boundless burdens
of heaping intestinal bluesy aftermaths exodus of conscience
bruising my self like a ********* in heat
on out of control run-on rants
and blood razor drenched mysticism
while real men drive earth movers
drink bruskies
and kick ***
hustling time share Chinese handcuff contracts
and up sell social justice platitudes
fit for pie in the sky levitating hysteria
lives shatter like red ice
in endless cacophonies of skull clobbering effacement
I'm writing this poem to be ignored
and no one lets me down
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
In Spain -
where cheese-making stretches back
to centuries
is a medium sized lump of
Sweet ******* Christ
blessed is the ******
whose womb merited to carry
our small herd of
hand-milked cows
providing milk, cheese, butter, and ice
and to Christians,
the lamb is the symbol of when
the pope and all the christian leadership
will be succeeded by
Moo Jesus
The Good Shepard draws not milk
not liquid from his sheep
but
an overview over Greek pagan
and Christian pastoral deities
then Christ went and
made the exorcism and
he sold in town all his
rriegitha cheese, his curds, his milk
I mentioned that The Green Sheep
had an ad coming out
in the body and blood of Christ
how could the shepherds resist
the temptation?
I was refusing the sacraments
mysticism is cheese
Christ is cheese
better still,
mountains of cheese!
Is your cheese killing the planet?
The Wedding of the Dead:
Celebration and Restraint
Christ stopped at Ebola
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
If there were a formula
for the way her lips seek out
for mine while I am still attached
to those of a boy,
I would plug it through with
the determination
of a scientist, feeding it
back and forth through the
machines until someone
could give me an answer.
She visits me
in my sleep, bleeds
through the walls of
our separate dimensions
until she finds a way
into my heart. From there,
she rides my bloodstream up
into my brain, she puts
her hands on my controls
and guides my dreams
through to her childhood
home, where she knows
I'll fall in love with the gap
between her teeth and the way
she practices the word
"kindergarten"
when she thinks no one
can hear her.
I could never find her
through the keys
of my Macbook,
she calls to me
through typewriters in
store windows, when I think
I've lost her, I go into bookstores
and flip through the pages
in the poetry section until
teasing
she gives me a word,
just enough
of a puzzle to hold me
until next time. I think
when it's completed
it will look like her freckles,
the eyeshadow she spreads
over her heartache, the lipstick
she wears to feel like a woman
on the days when she needs to act
like a man, if I were a man.
I'd no longer be captivated
by the mysticism
of their skin. No longer see
the revolutionary twisting
through their spines. But
if I were a man, I wouldn't have
the same parts as my lover.
Maybe then
we'd be
just different enough
for me to tell her
how I feel.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
Psychedelics are akin to Mysticism
but that does not at all begin to mean
that one must do Psychedelics to be Mystical;
it simply means that in the proper context
Psychedelics can reveal the importance of things
the significance of "it all";
the inherent Mysticism
to which we ourselves
are akin.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
Do you know me now
As I travel alone....
The road I travel
I want all of you
Like the sea itself
Flowing beautifully
Endlessly....
From your own shores
If you knew me then
Will you know me now....
Like the land itself
Something hard
No lack of mysticism
Flood my lands with seas....
Not my mountains
Would you want to know more
My wandering tides
My wandering mind
Changing oh so silently
So vigorously
Never stop the flowing of our fragrant emotions....
As your rivers flow through me’
I have built dams’
Not to ban you away
To retain you’
When a time
We no longer exist
If only we meant the world
To each other....
As travel alone....
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
Every thanksgiving,
My family gets smaller.
Gone to college. Gone traveling. Gone to another woman. Gone to Florida. Gone to prison.
Gone to see the lord.
Funerals are how
I visit the lord. God is drawn to eulogies.
He’s there, a fixture,
almost a cliche,
like a great aunt with a black veil
weeping into a floral
handkerchief.
Today, at this funeral,
a thin layer of snow and ice
has frozen the ground.
Black dress shoes
press ridged footprints into the
snow.
Every funeral I’ve ever
been to has been cold. Dress
clothes and peacoats
aren’t thick enough to keep
me warm during a funeral.
I keep my hands in my pockets and hunch forward,
watching my breath hit the winter wind.
The winter wind is
an evaporated sadness, like god.
During thanksgiving, the gravy boat
on the counter
let off hot, thin steam. While pouring it thick
on my potatoes,
A shadow in the corner of the room caught my eye.
The days after a funeral are
filled with a confused, hopeful mysticism. Every moving shadow,
every unexplained noise
is a visitation.
So I ****** my head towards the corner of the room. Nothing.
Glancing back at the table,
I look at his empty seat, reminded
how much I’m him. I’m quiet, like he was.
I
laugh like he laughed.
My teeth are as bad as his were.
I drink like he did when he was
my age,
days, nights at a time, stumbling home from dark pubs,
watching, with blurred vision,
my whisky breath hit the winter wind,
and evaporate, almost as fast as God.
After the turkey and the pie and the coffee,
I go down to the basement
and I pour myself a stiff
*** and coke.
I drink, in silence, to the gone.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Dear friends , this is an old poem of mine which was composed after I learnt that one of my favourite Hollywood actor Richard Gere had become a Buddhist and believed in Zen Philosophy. So having read about Zen, I composed in a simple format about the same. Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.
ZEN PHILOSOPHY
With roots buried deep in soils of Ancient India,
And watered by the exotic blend of three different
cultures;
Reflecting the mysticism of India, the pragmatism
of the Confucian mind, and the Taoist’s love of
naturalness and spontaneity,
Buddhism bloomed and blossomed into an exotic
flower called 'Zen Philosophy'!
In 475 AD a pupil of Buddha called Bodhidharma
went to China.
There the Mahayana School of Buddhism mingled
with Chinese Taoism, which evolved into Chan
Philosophy!
'Chan ' derived from the Sanskrit word 'dhyana',
which meant 'silent meditation', -
Through which the Buddha attained enlightenment
and salvation!
Later, in 1200 AD this Chan philosophy travelled to
the shores of Japan,
Where 'Chan' got translated to 'Zen' by its many
followers and fans!
ZEN is the art of meditation to achieve inner awakening,
To gain intuitive knowledge, highlighting the inadequacy
of logical reasoning!
It therefore advocates the practice of 'zazen' or 'sitting
meditation',
For acquiring inner awakening through silent
contemplation!
ZEN could be practised in our daily life,
Without entering a hermitage, leaving behind your
family or wife!
'Gain the naturalness of your original true nature',
- preaches the Zen Teacher through meditation,
'Rather than through mere faith and devotion,
which is contrary to Zen notion.'
'One must awaken to this present moment to feel
this life,
And not waste time in speculations of an Elusive
After-Life’!
The 'Enso' or the ‘circle’, is the Zen symbol which is
often deployed,
Symbolising Enlightenment, Strength, the Universe,
and the Void!
With this 'expression of the moment ' the Zen Philosophy
starts,
And today the ‘Enso’ is also the symbol of Expressionist
Art!
Never ask the Zen Master 'What is Zen, when, or how? ',
For he will always tell you, - 'Zen Is The Instant Now'!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Crowns embellished
with ebony bewitching.
A sliver of gold
pierces the veil.
Stalemate defined
by velveteen seas.
Eyes of steel incandescent
under the blacksmiths hands.
The finest sapphires inlaid.
A woman in hand
the mightiest of weapons.
Snowy mountains nourished
the victory of Man.
Gravid in mysticism
keeper of seeds
bloomed the Kings strength.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
*to further my point, as an eager reader in
a catholic school, reading about
the gnostic heretics, wondering
with my theology tutor upon the question
asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics
influenced mohammad on the sly?
i mean, they too believed a phantom walked
among men, and a phantom was crucified?*
my confirmation didn't take place
in a cathedral, as was due course for all of
us in being schooled, by a bishop
in brentwood cathedral,
i opted out... my confirmation came
in a russian orthodox cathedral,
in st. petersburg, when i watched
people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm,
with the priest mumbling
toward a golden altar, as typical in
the tradition, buttocks towards the people
or as in the western tradition
reciting in latin, before the nationalists
came and spoke the gospel in each
designated tongue so people understood,
a bit like having your back turned
against the people - speaking in latin -
and when i sat i the church
to listen to the choir singing,
some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me
to stand up, and pay respect to the golden
altar... he told me to stand up!
what cheek... what barbarism... only
in russia... i had to stop being bewildered
by the beauty of song and listen to
a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of
gold... THEN i was confirmed...
donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving!
mind the fact that i've seen the greatest
degradation of mysticism take place...
the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along...
in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along,
the idiots reminded me of it...
you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname...
you're educated: confirmation name...
that takes four spaces of consideration...
so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils,
folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces
of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god...
but only in writing... first name, baptismal name,
confirmation name, surname...
a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing...
same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw...
but experience-wise... un-original to the ****
not even a clone... not able to experience major
historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself...
a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior
if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper...
clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible...
too many inter-actants along the way
can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone...
different mr. john smith... NEXT!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
A life away
You intertwined our fingers
And whisper, this is fate
It cannot be by chance.
But little do you know,
There is no guiding hand
We are a combination
Of one path that we took
And the rest that were not taken
And in this very moment
I read a book in a café
I watch a movie from my bed
I ski across the Alps
I breathe your scent
Mingled with the aromas
Of coffee, sleep and freshly packed snow
And of many, many more
And yet
The braid made by our fingers
Is duplicated countless times
Through all these permutations
You see
The odds were therefore in our favor
Alas, no mysticism here
What you call fate, is chance
The guiding hand of nature.
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
She came to me
within a dream
Somewhere there
betwixt and between
Where all you see
cannot always be believed
And all is more
beautiful than
can ever be
known or seen
My eyes were amazed
by the wondrous sight
She standing before me
as though devine
Crying Her tears
of golden light
Her words were sure
Her grief then true
I could not begin
to comprehend
what I saw
and what I knew
In this moment
She was
perfect and pure
She wept as She spoke
of a great disgrace
The destruction of
an Holy Place
where We once
there were wed
A sacred chapel
where solemn vows
were said
Gone it's gone
it has been destroyed
Her cries of anguish
tore at my heart
I could not believe
such tragedy occurred
My words were
They couldn't
They never would
This is just a rumor
that you have heard
The chapel is protected
by law and truth
and by the powers
from all above
She was there
but just a little while
My eyes then opened
and I recognized
She had been with me
She had appeared
This was the moment
I knew it all was
so very real
I then heard
the blast of horns
from the great ship's
on the LA Bay
And knew I must find out
I must go back
and see someday
I traveled far
I journeyed high
But still I wondered
if the chapel stood
Knowing I must
go back there
To know what must
and should be seen
to be understood
Time then went on
as several years
they came and then went
I remembered and decided
I must go back to see
if this Holy place
might still exist
As though on
a mission sent
My travels went beyond
and then I returned
to that city where
my life there once was
I went there to see
If the chapel remained
But when I arrived
the chapel was gone
Real and a fact
The evidence seen
A vision of an Angel
who seemingly Devine
therein descended within
a lucid dream
The purest
of knowledge
The absolute Truth.
Mystery or Mysticism
It is all just what it seems.
-R.
2.22.17
-LA
-4MAR
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
We set out to honor Mary
traveling the pilgrim's path from west to east
We walked, we rode the bus
entertained and enchanted by Cristina
applauding Ramon along the way.
Each day was one of prayer and song, sunshine and fellowship
rosaries and novena
we submitted petitions to Santiago
we laughed with San Serapio
From the grand and magnificent cathedrals
to the humblest village chapel
we grew in faith, hearing God's word in many languages.
We marveled at the dedication and stamina of the pilgrims
making their way on foot and bicycle
at the warmth, generosity, and hospitality
they receive along the way
We picknicked alongside mountain streams
enjoying good food, good wine,and good friendship
we walked down the hillsides in the hot sunshine
passing the pilgrims going the opposite way
we quenched our thirst in a quaint and rustic village tavern.
Ramon drove with skill up the mountains to Garabandal
a remote village suspended in time and beauty
there on the mountain top we sat among the pines
where Mary had appeared.
We sat in silence, in awe and reverence
the only sounds, the whisper of the breeze and the cowbells on the hillside
We prayed the rosary
It was, for most of us, a most special memory
From our bus we looked out at the mountains
the green and rolling farmland
at the rocky Atlantic coast
at the rios and the rias.
We walked in procession at Fatima and Lourdes
by candlelight and moonlight
and again in the brilliant sunshine
The voices and the church bells
carried across the plazas
enveloping us in joy and prayer and mysticism
It was at the grotto at Lourdes
with my hands pressed on the rocky cave wall
with the holy water on my hands
that I felt Mary's presence
Mary, my mother, my sister, my friend
AVE MARIA
September, 2008
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
Dear Friends , this is an old poem of mine which was composed after I learnt that Richard Gere, one of my favourite Hollywood actors had become a Buddhist and believed in Zen Philosophy. So having read about Zen I composed this simple verse. Hope you like it. If you like it kindly re-post this poem. Thanks, - Raj.
ZEN PHILOSOPHY
With roots buried deep in soils of Ancient India,
And watered by the exotic blend of three different
cultures;
Reflecting the mysticism of India, the pragmatism
of the Confucian mind, and the Taoist’s love of
naturalness and spontaneity,
Buddhism bloomed and blossomed into an exotic
flower called 'Zen Philosophy'!
In 475 AD a pupil of Buddha called Bodhidharma
went to China.
There the Mahayana School of Buddhism mingled
with Chinese Taoism, which evolved into Chan
Philosophy!
'Chan ' derived from the Sanskrit word 'dhyana',
which meant 'silent meditation', -
Through which the Buddha attained enlightenment
and salvation!
Later, in 1200 AD this Chan philosophy travelled to
the shores of Japan,
Where 'Chan' got translated to 'Zen' by its many
followers and fans!
ZEN is the art of meditation to achieve inner awakening,
To gain intuitive knowledge, highlighting the inadequacy
of logical reasoning!
It therefore advocates the practice of 'Zazen' or 'sitting
meditation',
For acquiring inner awakening through silent
contemplation!
ZEN could be practiced in our daily life,
Without entering a hermitage, leaving behind your
family or wife!
'Gain the naturalness of your original true nature',
- preaches the Zen Teacher through meditation,
'Rather than through mere faith and devotion,
which is contrary to Zen notion.'
'One must awaken to this present moment to feel
this life,
And not waste time in speculations of an ‘elusive
After-Life’.
The 'Enso' or the ‘circle’, is the Zen symbol which is
often deployed,
Symbolizing Enlightenment, Strength, the Universe,
and the Void!
With this 'expression of the moment ' the Zen Philosophy
starts,
And today the ‘Enso’ is also the symbol of Expressionist
Art!
Never ask the Zen Master 'What is Zen, When, or How? ' ,
For he will always tell you, - 'Zen Is The Instant Now'!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Mahayana in Sanskrit means 'Great Vehicle', and is the largest major tradition of Buddhism existing today. The other branch is called Hinayana, meaning the ‘Lesser Vehicle’.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
Success is a mere construct that is subjectively incompatible with professed spirituality.
Butter may spread with ease on a slice of bread, and it may not.
There is something appealing about the grains of sand which lodge in obscure places.
The texture of nature is truly fraught with the bliss and tragedy of North African mysticism.
Geology may be ancient, but so are the sensual indulgences of Cleopatra.
The construction of wonders remains to be perplexing; and I haven’t cleansed myself in milk.
Cairo is the epitome of occult curiosity where Anubis reigns in contemporary economics.
The All Seeing Eye promises safety at the cost of homage.
Identify yourself. If freedom doesn’t exist,
then why does the abode of the dead eagerly impose determinations?
Fly the flag. God bless America.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
She wore an air of mysticism
Her memory bore prophetic visions
From ancient egyptian
And judaic traditions
She knows every star system
And every night is a mission
Where she wishes and wishes
For help from the legends
Feeling the kundalini extension
A timeless moment in meditation
She rode a chariot of ascension
With many faces
Facing in all directions
Interpreting new races
There was
Communication retention in
Multidimensional dimensions
And convoluted intentions
Creating dense tension
Leaving her in suspension
Then, there was a call for attention
And she witnessed the mention
Of helping Earths' ascension
Words whispered with foreign inflections
Melted away her apprehensions
With familiar definitions
And promising space faring inventions
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
Pleasure for the eyes beauty is!
Pleasure for the nose fragrance is!
Pleasure for the ears music is!
Pleasure for the lips kiss is!
Pleasure for the body breeze is!
Pleasure for the mind meditation is!
Pleasure for the soul mysticism is!
Pleasure for five senses they get themselves!
Pleasure for five elements they get themselves!
Pleasure for all Nature only gives forever!
So, let us preserve Nature to make world better
For the future generation to enjoy pleasure better!
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 3:41 AM UTC
i have plenty of dried leaves and hot water at home, but my winter self hikes four miles in the snow for a cup of tea.
i know more words than i had ever hoped to understand, but i still shuffle them like tap shoes to place meaning on my notebooks.
i have seen mountain views that make me weak in the knees, but i still need to see what else the world holds, and if that makes me reckless beyond being someone’s wife, then so be it.
I understand that the life that I want is not one that should be kept up with or stood alongside, but one where I deign mystery into my own flesh and mysticism into my own sky
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
*The end,
Felt every bit as sudden as the beginning
There wasn't any magic,
No mysticism to evoke comparisons of the divine
It was simply an instant reality
That no amount of prayers or wishes could change*
__________________
And I will never find the words,
They elude me each day
Mocking me from their unattainable perch with glee-
People write of love that is
Everlasting by definition,
Beautiful in it's absolute distinction
And worthy of praise and adoration in it's splendor
Somehow,
They fail to mention that love,
Pales in comparison to the sorrow that follows
I miss you
© 2014 Peach
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
my neighbour came over,
quick impromptu
into the dog collar
and you have your murderer
and the priest;
guilt ridden as if by small pox
she sat on my bed:
no ulterior motive,
no auxiliaries of conscience to back-up
now; a clear would-be **** victim...
jewish so i had to stress my fascination
with the jewish mysticism of kabbalah;
and i did so in all earnest
asking whether i said i am eh yeh correctly:
also the whole bit of original interpretation
the secrecy of the rabbinical
aHa aHe
males as rigid as consonants
women as fluid as vowels ********
missing accents on eden's language of globalization
that's short of tartan english of glasgow
with key stress punctures of trans-punctuation
crafted for either serious distinction on consonants,
or ridiculous aesthetics when given to vowels
of parisian stilettos: fancy ah fancy nah fancy
a mistress in fishnet leggings? yes? no? maybe?
undecided i see. trophy wife material... next!
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
Waterfalls
Are
A Magnificent
Force of Nature,
Formed over
Softness,
And Hard rock-
Creating
New life,
And it
Flows down
And continues
All the time.
There is
A mysticism
That surrounds-
Standing
Behind
It as it
Rushes down
To the bottom;
And wouldn’t
It be surreal;
And, I wonder
What it would
Be like to be
That water
In another life,
Becoming alive
In another form,
Resplendence,
Shining
Forever.
The wind
Carrying
You,
In this life
And the next one...
Don’t be afraid,
I dreamed this.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 3:55 AM UTC
Your physical contact makes a mystical impact
And your eye contact leaves me barely intact
So when I see your indifference I want to attack
The emotions my brain has foolishly stacked
But new information enters
Around you it's centered
To you I'm indentured
Mysticism is endured
On the end of your lure
There is no magical cure
For the thoughts you deem impure
So you drag me through the water
Morphing me into your unwilling otter
I'm pushed beneath the surface in your wake
I'm trapped in the penitentiary of your lake
By the spells I'm bound
In the hell I've found
Where my mind is a barbaric battlefield
Those I'm attracted to hide behind a shield
Those attracted to me I've buried in the sand
In between the two lies no man's land
Where a wandering mystic travels
I live in fear of his arcane gavel
That judges all things
Dematerializing kings
He searches for someone to elude
His magic bubble blocks the crude
Yet I'm magnetized to the magician
Who holds the key to my ignition
And although I'm just a misfit
I traverse toward mystics
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC