"reveling" poems
Your eyes shine intensely
So intense
The midday sun seems so dark
They possess
This intense luminescence
They tease me like a planet
That longs to be explored
I would telescope them
As an astronomer admires the night sky
Peering into them
Looking to traverse through your mind
Get lost within
Reveling in the beauty that is such
Stumble across the kind magnificence
That is your gentle soul
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
She seems pretty queer
Yes she does
Something odd
Something peculiar
Is it in her insouciance
Is it in her audacity
Is it in her pirouettes
Spun with such vivacity
Is it in her defiance
Is it in her nonrepentance
Is it in her reveling so free
A form full of glee
Sometimes impetuous
All times ingenuous
Aflame with passion
An immersive intoxication
Cracking down on this mystery
A perplexing dichotomy
Let's remove the misfitting pieces
In sync with commonplace notions
Alas what dismantling of a girl
at peace with her pieces
What uprooting of a girl
at home in her body
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
“Quiet,
Caring,
I think she sings?
She was in the musical,”
Everyone walks around so smug
Binding themselves to egocentrism
While I sit here
A burden
Wondering about the
F L A V O U R
Of confidence
No one really knows me
Writing me off
Reveling in my
Embarrassment
Just because I don’t
Go out, as much
Just because I don’t
Lift drinks to my lips
Just because I don’t
Open up to everyone
I can’t take it
I just want to write a letter
To everyone,
Saying:
“Yes, I’m caring.
I’m like a mother to most.
Yes, I was in the musical.
Ensemble, thank you very much.
Yes, I sing.
I love to sing; I’m going to college for it.
However, I am NOT quiet;
My friends would argue that.
I’m not anti-social.
I just don’t like this corrupt world.
And finally,
I’m loud.
I am LOUD,
AND I LOVE IT!”
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
I think sometimes
We need to be a little adventurous
Conquering that new horizon
Letting go of your fear of the unknown
Letting go of your fear of losing control
Being able to revel in the new
Reveling in the moment
Tackling life
Without fear
And regrets
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
Basking in postcoital bliss, talking between the sheets
catching our breath, giggling with laughter treats
Laying in the afterglow, tangled in the sheets
sweating cooling skin, and completing greater feats
Blissful in post euphoria, feeling quite appeased
finding comfort in warm arms, putting me at ease
Still sighing, touching, tasting, nuzzled in content
reveling in the splendor, our minds and bodies, spent
Let me drink, this moment in, before we turn to clocks,
wishing only to start again, as seconds ticking mocks.
Snuggling together, eyes and hands so locked
wishing for ourselves, more hours, on the clock
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
It is all I ever wanted
With you
To sit and wait
In this crowded space
Waving in vain
To the waiter in distress
And I crack up
To calm you down
No need to fret
His smile tender
Once we place our order.
Between bites
And overhearing
The couple beside
I bask
In delight
Eating
My obsession
While you carry on
With the conversation.
I pass by
Quickly catching this sight
I stand outside
At at loss it is not I
Savoring sushi at your side.
I walk past all I ever wanted
With you
You sit inside
Reveling in my sushi
With another one than me.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.
There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.
The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.
Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.
Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.
One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.
One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
I’m a kite
Attached to a string
Moments of freedom
Reveling in the feeling of the wind
Until a tug
And a pull
Keeps you in place
Reminds me
I’m not truly free
Someone won’t you set me free?
Someone won’t you help me?
Loosen the string
Loosen your hold
So I can fly free
Away from here
Away from the string holding me here
Let me be an untethered kite
I could fly free
Explore the world
Bring joy
With my flashy colors
My vibrant patterns
Instead I am under the control
Of those who keep me
Who decide when I have a few minutes
Riding on the freedom of the wind
I wish I had arms
To reach down
With a pair
Of gleaming scissors
To cut my tether
I wish I had a voice
To tell them what I want
What I think
Because they won’t listen
Won’t pay attention
To my relentless fight
To my constant struggle
Against the confines of my rope
Won’t someone set me free?
Can’t somebody help me?
To become an untethered kite?
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 1:07 AM UTC
An artist,
Bleeding his heart into the canvas
Carefully planning his masterpiece
Dutifully paying attention to every detail.
Emotionally drained,
Forced to finish his work
Grueling over an uninviting crowd
Helpless to the impending backlash
Inspired, the artist continues
Just to prove his critics wrong
Knowing that his work will be amazing
Loving himself even more
Meticulously painting his beautiful image
Never letting stamina get to him
Opening his mind to a grand illusion
Presented to him by an transcendent figure
Questioning if what he saw was true
Reveling in the moment of it all
Slowly, the artist comes to a finish
Trapping the moment inside of his easel
Unveiling to the crowd was his final test
Vociferously, he explained his masterpiece
When all of a sudden, the artist begins to run
Xenophobia had stricken him
You now know why most artists are obscure.
Zealous fans always ruin everything.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:12 PM UTC
My body is hungry for something more
Than feather light touches
And sweet kisses from soft lips.
I want to be touched in ways only possible
By a man of which a fire lies within.
I need a passion so bright
It blinds me of my surroundings,
My only focus on his rough grasp
Holding too tightly, for too long.
I must know how it feels
For the rough skin of his grasp
To slide along my waist,
Taking in all of me and none of me all at once,
His only focus on my moaning cries of pleasure
Seeping from my soft lips,
Now burning and torn from being bitten
And abused by his teeth.
I crave in an uncontrollable way
To know every inch of his body,
How it feels crushed against mine,
What their mouth tastes like
And how much I enjoy reveling in it's kissing
Of places no one's ever kissed but him,
The feeling of complete intimacy
As his tongue flicks delicately along my lips,
Licking as my love flows from my wounds,
Tasting my pain, feeling it too,
Crying as one and I'm overcome
By sensations only ever given to me by one,
None other then him.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
This cave is my sanctuary; cold, damp, filled with minerals and creatures.
I sit cross legged peering out through the crescent shaped doorway mama nature has created. I have never been more at peace than I am when I’m here.
The water crashes hard on the barnacle covered rocks beneath me. The mist from the waves whirls its way up to sooth my aching skin. The sea calls my name in the way that an angel calls you into the light.
At first it’s just a delicate whisper. The voice is so charming and playful that it begins to lure me in. As i begin to drift further, letting the voice carry my thoughts, the waves pound harder and the symphony the sea has written me rapidly grows in volume and intensity.
The tension becomes so strong that the sky starts to erupt. The clash of the clouds creates a prismatic light sequence leaving the sky looking magnificently iridescent. I sit unstirred, reveling in it's beauty.
The sea is now agonizingly screaming for me to succumb to its cool paradise.
For a while I just sit and enjoy the elegance of the symphony. Once the sky starts to lower its darkened veil, I know it is time to go.
I stand up with more certainty than I had ever felt before.
I slowly take three steps forward, embracing the feeling of the dirt in between my toes.
Two long strides, and then I leap. The thick foggy air caresses my body as it swiftly careens downward.
The symphony ends with a splash.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
You smile
as you mentally
slip on your disguise.
You smile
as you look deeply
into their trusting eyes.
You smile
as you put into words
all the things they want to hear.
You smile
with a voice
that sounds so incredibly sincere.
You smile
while reveling in the fact
that they do not have a clue.
You smile
because you know
that they do not see the malevolent you.
You smile
so clever, so witty
in addition, you pour on the charm.
You smile
since you have them convinced
that you mean them no harm.
You smile
and begin to lose sight
of what is reality and what is a lie.
You smile
at your power
to always make them cry.
You smile
as you continue to play
not caring that it is a sick, twisted little game.
You smile
knowing that when you are through
you will not even remember their name.
You smile
as you realize
that you own them body and soul.
You smile
at their ignorance thinking to yourself
“You fool, how could you not know?”
You smile
as you continue *******
every bit of life out of them.
You smile
as you zoom in on and start stalking
your next impending victim.
You smile
as you move on
feeling no guilt or remorse and certainly without a care.
You smile
as you take all your ill-gotten gains
with you back to your lair.
You smile
with conceit and arrogance,
“This is a game I always win.”
You smile
and laugh aloud assured,
that you will get away with it again.
You smile ……….
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
Schwinny, Baby,
You were supposed to be
my
Bicycle.
So I don't ask for anthing special.
No dark Harley divas
To whisk me off into the sunset.
But I thought we were at least
On the same road together.
So please.
Don't go droaning on how
Life got too complicated.
I mean,
You've got one flimsy gear.
And don't go moaning how
The road got too bumpy.
I mean,
You went blind bonzai batshit
over burnt black tar pavement.
You just
Let go.
Threw away your
Chain of reasoning
Faster than I could brace for impact.
So am I bleeding?
Yeah, I'm bleeding.
And the worst part is,
I still need you!
No, No, no.
Not like Pom Pom pammy
Needs her purple-plated pogo stick
Nor like Princess Paris
And her prissy pink prom queen limo,
No.
I mean I need I need you like
Alibaba needs his golden cherub camel,
Like Ben Hur his crimson-fury chariot.
Because work is 37. Blocks. Away.
And it starts in 16 minutes.
And the bus is really unreliable.
So we ride again,
Guts against the wind.
But now I've got all ten fingers and toes
Crossed,
Two by two,
And point in fact,
Racing down Guadalupe with
Forked Philanges
Gets really hairy.
But your suicidal tendancies simply scare me.
Your thirst to incur first degree burns,
Fractured femurs,
And flayed skin whittles my patience
To tire track thin!
Think I'll
Roll my dice with a Segway.
She'd be a quaint, play it safe kind of girl.
Type to show off
To a Mom and Dad
Reveling in rosemary jubilation.
Aw, son.
We knew you'd land a keeper. That's my boy.
But in ten days tops,
I'd begin to miss your fiery imbalanced breath.
I'd yearn for your bipolar 180 turns that
Make my heart skip that terrible, syncopated beat.
So let's just say,
I'll give it one more shot.
But ***** just promise you'll stick around a little longer.
It's storming outside and
We both got a few blocks to go.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
We are all animals of a baser kind
elementary creatures, reveling in our complexity
an assembly of simple machines, each playing part
in an inseparable chorus of flesh and ego
Boastful beings, claiming we are contrived by gods
fashioned from particles, or the dust of dead giants
though truly, we are merely creations of vanity and chance
the eyes of a universe looking back upon itself in awe
How grand and vain, this cosmic mirror!
****** upon eyes that only stare in wonder*
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Bring to me a strong ***
By which my soul's sorrow will be forgot:
Filled with an ****** divine
So that Woman may be driven from my mind.
For I no longer want
This stream inspiring a heartly haunt,
That once flows will not stop
'Til my heart's blood drains to its last drop,
And so drained, then breaks.
Leaves me with an art held for its own sake.
So bring me forth this draught,
Deepest as ever one from Lethe quaffed.
From my broken heart charm
This fair Image of the earth's Fairest Form
That ever my heart has held,
That ever my reveling heart has swelled.
Alas, seems never shall be
My mind's eye, my heart, my soul ever free
Of this tort'rous torment.
Left with naught to do, only lament.
Away I cannot chase
The mind numbing beauty of her face.
'Tis all in vain it seems
For such a draught appears only in my dreams.
My sight did so invest,
Bringing damning pain abreast.
No longer can delight
Be brought forth from sights seen in any light.
Had she only known how
My heart, once free, only beat for her now
And with but a smile
Assuaged that murd'rous pain but for a while
I would then know relief,
That most bittersweet pain, the "joy of grief."
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
Fill for me a brimming bowl
And in it let me drown my soul:
But put therein some drug, designed
To Banish Women from my mind:
For I want not the stream inspiring
That fills the mind with--fond desiring,
But I want as deep a draught
As e'er from Lethe's wave was quaff'd;
From my despairing heart to charm
The Image of the fairest form
That e'er my reveling eyes beheld,
That e'er my wandering fancy spell'd.
In vain! away I cannot chace
The melting softness of that face,
The beaminess of those bright eyes,
That breast--earth's only Paradise.
My sight will never more be blest;
For all I see has lost its zest:
Nor with delight can I explore,
The Classic page, or Muse's lore.
Had she but known how beat my heart,
And with one smile reliev'd its smart
I should have felt a sweet relief,
I should have felt ''the joy of grief.''
Yet as the Tuscan mid the snow
Of Lapland dreams on sweet Arno,
Even so for ever shall she be
The Halo of my Memory.
3.4k
your ears were by far your best feature
they could deflect all my nervous trifles and absorb the jokes no one else got, the confessions I whispered through the phone, and the significance of being on the other end
(please remember)
I am not compiling a list of clichés with which to barricade the door when loneliness knocks
This is not a love song,
so please don’t use those ears to search for one
those ears were second only to your tongue
it possessed the unique ability to mold sound into exactly what I needed to believe
the confessions it sculpted
and glazed with calculated vulnerability fit so comfortably in my ear
that tongue was a love song and a mace rolled into one
(please remember)
not to use it to sing my praises, and I’ll grant you the same courtesy
your feet are so beautiful, too
the elegance with which they propelled you into someone else’s day dreams was inspired
with a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
the fumes choking me, I never got a chance to say
that coffee from the place you used to-
we
used to like
is bitter now
it tastes the way goodbye did as it rolled off my tongue and chased your retreating back
I add more sugar
but the clinking of the spoon echoes the “I love yous” whispered to someone else
the sound fits in her ear the way your hand used to fit in mine
the spaces between my fingers now resemble apartments whose tenants have been evicted
the landlord hardened by rejection wears a coat sewn from the time and wears a mustache curled into the shape of desire
these lonely flats are plagued with shadows
(that’s what happens when the sun is so **** close you can taste it, but there’s something else in the way)
(please remember)
this is not a love story
(please remember)
I don’t want you back
I want coffee that won’t stain my smile
I want my favorite songs not to be harmonized by the sound of your breathing
I want my posture not to sing a Taylor Swift song and
I desperately want not to be the girl writing you poetry
(the kind that you would never listen to anyway)
your ears were by far your best feature
everything else is blurry to me now
I can’t picture your edges anymore, or differentiate where they separate from mine
Your ears were second only to your tongue
Your feet are so beautiful, too
With a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
reveling in the unity of contradiction
the omnipresence of disjunction
the opaqueness of transparency
the anarchy of governance
the unknowableness of the zeitgeist
the banality of chiqueness
the slavery of fashion
kinda like being a hipster in Brooklyn
with no conscience of consciousness
or is it no consciousness of conscience?
one is a statement the other a dumb question
seeking an intelligent answer
truly the tragedy of comedy
or is it the comedy of tragedy?
enough of these silly questions....
why don't it just fall apart?
how does it stay together?
accessorize smartly
tight ensem
put together
right
Music Selection:
Jimi Hendrix
ifasixwas9
Oakland
6/21/13
jbm
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
A single light
fractured into a billion shards
of bright white energy
fall like raindrops of
golden emotion to the
Earth.
All things under the sun,
sewn of the same silk and
molded of the same clay.
All pumping life
through roots embedded
in soft flesh.
Consecrating acts of love,
hate, and whim for they all flow
from the same spring,
reveling in the fact
that one exists exactly as
nature intended.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Deep out on the rim of the galaxy
there lies a tiny place
that no one knows about.
It’s the place where all good things come from.
All the generations of and for love
and kindness and bliss and forgiveness
root at its source.
It is the ultimate destination
among our solar heavens.
Try to imagine a lost vessel,
isolated and tired,
hiccuping between the suns,
then finding the Great Milky Way's secret place of joy.
Our undisclosed place of love.
The place we all forgot.
Earth.
These occupants of the ship would be lost to reveling
at our earthly capacities for tenderness.
OH, the total bliss they all must feel!
Ahh,
be careful now you.
I've gone and caught you being optimistic.
Try to remember this solid truth.
Equally hidden in the stars,
there is a place of evil.
One where the tempted souls
and sinners place their geneses.
A place of desperation and angst
and fear and segregation.
There is always a little a yin to the yang.
There is no one with out the other.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
*Glitzy gowns, crisp suits
Dainty personalities, well-groomed gentlemen
The crème de la crème of society
Poised reveling in an aura of importance
Flex their financial muscle
In the name of philanthropy.
Handing out gifts to hoi polloi
Their hands gloved
Smiling from ear to ear
Their noses twitching
Apparently un-accustomed to the “smell” of poverty
Has poverty…a smell?
Self-aggrandizement overwhelming their souls
Having warmed the hearts of the downtrodden
It’s a deal…sealed
Effortlessly*
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
A palpable discord keeps me
turning all through the night
until the late rays of Sun
shine by again
I want a dreamcatcher
Feathery-spider web-
To keep my hypnagogic rest
sacred to me
And then I can wish
him closer...
Without a separating sea
I reserved my sleep to calmer
nights where my dainty ribs
caressed an incense-ridden
wind
My dreams are a shade
happier than me
I found my wrists
bedecked in fine jewelery
There's no chiming of antique
clocks in my sleepy
subconscious knots.
My eyes were not
corrosed over
so when he spoke I
comprehended
with crystal orbs
I'd hoped I find him through
disheveled bedsheets under
the waxing moon...
It illuminated my skin and sent me
soundly reveling in the hazy countenance
To me he's Elvis' love child
He's a wish fulfilled to me
I discovered an idol
I write letters,
coveted, held close
I worship what I
know of him
My thoughts are almost this
tangible-thing like a rope
I could grab and
make a knoose out of
perhaps it's time to slay
the golden bull
I struck his wayward glance
by some silver spring of snow
He's travelled to the ruins
of cathedrals with
chipped limestone on
the doors arched-shape...
darkness on the otherside...
Mother Mary follows,
walking through some threshold
hallway
Crooked stem, bent leaves...
A pruned up crackled rose
for me to eat
Those eyes...
dark brown, almond-shaped
Squinty with sparrow-feet
I'm waiting in the mountains
Clouds covering my eyes
Ocean blue in the stark sunshine
blinding me and enveloping me
when the music dies
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
And can you believe,
The horrible glee
With which his lips licked.
Dreaming-- carcass picked,
Reveling wholly.
Dismissing Holy
Enlightened beings,
Sinking in Needing.
Black black smack, alack!
I'm a crack-gack hack!
Or, mayhaps, I'm not?
Or, perhaps, just caught,
In nauseous verde waves
Of fanciful raves--
Rants all entertained--
I say makes me drained.
Baudelaire's half-baked,
Chatterton-- cracked
Morally, sorely
Standing half-poorly
But standing up still,
Avoiding the thrill
Of desert mirage,
It's poison barrage!
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC