"rhapsody" poems
a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm,
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats under the trees
and run inside to the pavilion
the women giggling, the men pretending calm,
wet cigarettes being thrown away,
Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the
pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees
and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian
Rhapsody #2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look,
one man sits alone in the rain
listening. the audience notices him. they turn
and look. the orchestra goes about its
business. the man sits in the night in the rain,
listening. there is something wrong with him,
isn't there?
he came to hear the
music.
36.5k
How do we begin
The music
Of love making?
Are we sure
That the language we share
Is harmonic?
Who arranges the pulse of the piece?
Who decides which beats are
Accented
Which beats
Are not?
Will they give rise
To our motif?
Will our phrases
Use repetition or contrast
Be weak or strong
****** or repose?
Will our passage
Be AABB
Or AABA?
How many themes
And how many variations
Will we play
on our
delicate instruments?
Will our cycle be
a symphony
or will we
happily create
a one movement work
with an air
of spontaneous inspiration
and call ourselves
a rhapsody?
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 6:17 PM UTC
Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.’
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
‘Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.’
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.’
The lamp said,
‘Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’
The last twist of the knife.
8.2k
The great New York metropolitan
stretching its vibrancy
trafficking its wears.
Car horns combating in contemptuous arguments
habituated eardrums unwittingly pulsating
Great buildings upward; towering behemoths in grandiose splendor
This great asphalt jungle sprawling its electricity for blocks,
for miles
The jazz of the city continues the chanting; the sounds of bass and the blowing of the **** sax, the horn, the piano
and the drums drumming on its rhythmical beat
Beating hearts feeling the vibrancy; the shock waves of nuances echoing the great hustle
Multitude of voices singing praise to the different tongues;
vibrant in diverse rejoicing, the poetry of men and women
Metropolitans claiming the world condensing into small
blocks and listening to its RHAPSODY.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
They had played for too long.
The stretching shadows sang in minor
whilst tackling gusts
scratched the colour from his hands
and tugged wire through her clutches.
Their fettered aircrafts swooped
in plunging shifts:
seconds of clouded rhapsody
and cotton screams-
equalled in deflection
and discord.
Their colourful counterparts
climbed higher, twisting
in solar breezes.
They gaped upwards with
tense suggestions
neither knowing
how to sever
their tangled kite-strings.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
‘LOVE’ – What mystique power it wields
In what myriad guise it wraps!
At times a sweet ache so coy to reveal
Or a sudden urge, hard to unveil
Sometimes a deep sensation
A strong surge of emotion
Permeating every atom
Pervading from top to bottom
It heightens the pulse
And makes every nerve convulse
It has left kingdoms fall asunder
And many a mighty man - surrender
Often, like dew drops falling from above
Or the warbling notes flowing out from the grove
It leaves the heart go upbeat in prosody
Changing every sensation into rhapsody
As beams of silver cast by the moon
Or the cold touch of spray in the horrid heat of noon
It soothes, embalms and thrills the heart
Filling the void and leaving no dearth
Love sublime, sure like a candle lit
Consumes itself, and never dwindles a bit
It dispels the gloom and dissipates the fright
Invigorating the soul and healing every hurt
As brilliance to stars, fragrance to flowers
Music to flute or shade to bowers
Love is to Man, freeing him from all sores
Bestowing him the strength to meet all throes
Love can neither be beguiled nor disguised
Nor be stifled or be construed
Love puts all other things into place
And hems life with a lovely lace
Love is all we seek and too scarce to find
A magic thread by which hearts are bound
Hark! It is love that makes the world spin around
And cures all the ills that surround
Oh! Love thou virtues I will defend
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.
Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.
Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.
Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
*she said
being a feminist
i have forsaken the temples of normalcy
for dark gratifications and base seduction
and discovered that those who know the pleasures
of objectification
and frenzied ****** lucidity with strangers
are wiser then the children of sweetness and light
as marriage betrays the need to satisfy
secret dark labyrinths desire
and in its place
repeats ad nauseum
blunt fortitudes
in dim sunless rooms
for fear of the transgressive
satans *** nail
is conventions essential creed
exhaustions hand maid
rendered imagine-less
bereft of the new
until a mere stand in
for true desire is left
like a starved ghost
on a dead moon
a desiccated morsel
left for a hungry mouse
is romantic marriage a poetic conception
by love starved victorian imbeciles
vanquished in increments
by petty spats of blood and thunder
who know not the joys of the whips blood toothed kisses
purgation's brutal sensuality
and a creel
of ramming butter **** gang bangs
in secret fetish gardens
of cries and coos
that leave the *** wilted
and the soul lite
like a butterfly in heaven
slave girl asks
as hips sway
to sacred dionysian storms
in the smoldering pangs
of the heart
as backs writhe and arch
flex and sweat rhapsodic
and viscera panic with desire
are not such delicious degradations
pleasures ravage despicable
cause for an ecstatic celebration
kindling
fiery vapors incense
en-flamed dragons blood
for drooling kisses
that talk in tongues
in a language that everyone understands
infinitly preferred
over the rolling eyes of disapproval
in the tepid marriage bed*
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Bohemian baby, yeah thats what I am
Using rhapsody words, to write my jam
Vocals and lyrics, make a different sense to all
Changes I embrace, sometimes cause my fall
Bahama mama, I write for thee
Sand in my hair, and I'm livin free!
Beautiful coral, could cut me like a knife
Sailing the seas of words, now thats my life
Rays from the sun, make my unnatural color
My Calypso, she is my mother
From all of this, Caribbean joy
Raised on the island, a bahama bohemian boy
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:15 PM UTC
_Tendrils of drowsy pleasure entice and hypnotise,
As daybreak storms; a rapturous collision,
Of distorted cadences and scintillating harmonies,
Between discarded blue-sky sheets._
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 5:13 PM UTC
I like to remember that time
that we went to IHOP breakfast for the first time
You didnt know
but i was really nervous
and you started singing bohemian rhapsody
and i joined in
it made me feel better
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.
I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.
Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.
But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.
But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.
Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
This morning,
I walked with god and man, and animal
I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy
some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regi-man
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
always complaining, why do they get
the cheap seats
so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name
watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe
and here is where man comes in...
as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...
strange...
my Pandora app
back to back,
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals
and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:
*I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We, all, now-capital-buddies,
now, all, well-color-capitalized,
god and man and animal,
crooning a chorus of appreciation
let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me,
to live happily
with anticipation
for just one more day...*
June 2014
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Gathered pieces of a great puzzle ;
refreshed perspective like ocean riptides
foment at the confluence collecting dark rivers’ flow
Repurposing back-eddies ,
rejuvenation of stagnant brackish waters ,
inherent buried soul-shine purging
from the ancient core of earth mother
Light arising from the hidden depths
of inner stillness as if a refilling wellspring
burst forth , reawakening muted sighs unspoken
Forming poetic constellations of black and bright
to lighten afar the nebulous darkness ,
a sea of swirling ink transformed into poetry
A sage opus renewed
by the muse of a migrating flock ,
striving to discover new sacred grounds ;
yet there is an undeniable song sung
in the howling winds of change
An incitement from a higher dialect
that empowers a restoration of spirit
Oeuvre uplifted by rogue waves
of summoning winds ,
arousing that which time erases
A manifest renaissance
among the rousing nuances
of poetic continuum ,
judicious to rediscover
the enthralling vastitude
of every breaking wave
in a boundless sea of poesy
Where prevailing currents
stir oceans of verse eternal ;
provoking a verve revival ,
the magnitude of an unbroken circle ,
ocean swells merging singularity
with the omnipresent colour
of uncharted depths
As if thoughts are assuaged
by a union of intimately touching souls
with words of intangible spheres ,
sparking subtle shades of meaning
spanning poetic immortality
Transcending barriers of unexplored lexicon
to manifest the immensity,
enkindling rhapsody of hearts and minds
Deeply rooted soul replenishment
harvested from the tree of humankind ,
willingly sharing without regret nor intention ,
with deference to the soul of one-blood,
one-love enabling an enlightening
metamorphosis of the human journey ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Sometimes the rain doesn't tell a story,
or maybe it does.
It just cries out loud from nothingness,
yet it always was .
I think it yearns a friend or something,
but I never endure.
It plays a theme from a Beethoven's key,
melancholy to feel.
Cynical for ones who betrayed its trust,
surging ire it last.
Then tranquility had ended its rhapsody,
gone is her misery.
Iridescent hues formed the aurora sky,
rain bids goodbye.
Neither You and I can't even fathom,
the rains Delphic reasons.
For the rain only comes once a season.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
Hello Poetry
Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.
And here you are.
Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.
The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.
So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)
Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
She took the colors of rainbow
And came around me in splendid array
Like a sunshine dressed to **** me five days in a row,
She sat across me to sway
My mind and my heart to bend and bow.
Within eyeshot distance
In a beautiful blue dress my lady in love
Appeared in dream like trance
Remind me of those bluebells in silky glow.
Over her glowing skin my emotions ponder
Sparkly as fire and set me free from the torments
Of her thoughts in sleepless nights that wander.
My eyes held hers only for few moments.
She flipped her hair and wrapped it around
Her neck showing her shoulder in more detail
To make up my mind about her to turn around.
Her starry eyes open wide with beautiful smile.
Looking back at me as she gloats.
Twirled her shimmering hair few times,
She orchestrated rhapsody of delights
And snapped my mind into lucid dreams.
She is irresistible that I can only whisper
Melting in love with my burning desire.
Tilted her head as she made up her hair
And left it undone as she had me set on fire.
And slowly she letting me in
Watching her over again and again.
She opens up my heart into growing sensation
As she slowly letting me in
Only to find my unconscious mind.
She touched my heart and soul deeply with love
Under her hypnotic trance so profound
As she speaks, all my love that she can deserve
Her voice cast a spell on me to surround.
She brought her hair together with a bow,
Now her wish is my command,
She locked my heart forever with love.
I can’t think of myself without her to woo,
I told her I wanted to see her every day
And whispered ‘I don’t want to miss you’
Her name is Chelsea, she lives by the bay
She winked at me and said, ‘me too’.
Near the puzzle table we started to play
Mental map of our love to display with no clue
She promised me she never broke up
And her love grows stronger every day.
I am stuck in love and waited up
To cuddle with her every night and day,
Need her now more than ever
Until my last breath can stay
We always be together and forever.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 12:51 AM UTC
Rokkstarr
There's no more love for the music,
I've sang since birth about this world.
Sang those love songs in my youth,
Now your love songs make me hurl.
**** Rock 'n' Roll and the bands you think are great!
**** the police and **** you all!
**** all those people that you hate!
**** Radio 1 and **** the world!
Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.
Sell out tours and groupie whores.
Life is great? No life’s a bore.
Been here before and it was just the same.
Same old thing again and again.
Know what to expect, no more surprise’s;
No more excitement, no meaningful trophies.
It all means nothing, now we've been here so long;
The **** record label wants another song.
Which must be written, within the month;
We have a release date, so we can sell this stuff,
Before Christmas to the kids, because they’re our target audience;
The music that they want, they can get from their parents.
Because their parents know, that they just can't say "No.",
To a kid that wants something, as much as they will.
Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.
To be a Rokkstarr, you'd think would be great.
But the songs you once loved, you begin to hate.
You sing them so much, it becomes a habit;
Until one day you say "That's it! I've had it!"
I'm tired of singing these songs;
The words have lost all their meaning.
I need something new, something I can believe in.
I need music to fall in love with, I need lyrics with a real meaning;
But my hope for all that's Rock, is a memory that's slowly fading.
Soon Rock will die and be gone;
Because new Rock bands come and go.
Soon there will no longer be any hype;
About a band you heard on the radio.
Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.
You never know though I could be wrong.
Maybe soon I'll hear a song;
That will move me like 'Bohemian Rhapsody' did.
That will make me appreciate new music.
Here's hoping for the future,
For Rock to come back with a vengeance.
Remember your roots in a jam-packed moshpit?
Remember the mindless violence?
Remember when you saw your girl through the crowd
And fell in love with her there and then?
That’s love for Rock music at its finest
And believe me it will come again.
Rock 'n' Roll's not dead and gone;
Now Rokkstarr means something great!
Now we sing these songs with passion;
Now sing these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on the stage;
After finding our love for Rock!
So let's all softly bang our heads and GET THE **** UP!
(C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 9:58 AM UTC
Indigo.
I refuse to use
That word for blue.
Why say digit
When toe will do.
Indigo: It's pedantic
Donnish
Academic
Should I mention
It's pretentious.
Some use it to explain
Deeper feelings
Than it can.
Sacrebleu!
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
Laying outside on a creaky old balcony,
On our backs, tangled up together in heavy blankets,
Rubbing our hands and ears
Because they’re getting numb
Thankful for the summer’s gentle night
I drew my eyes away
From the graceful Venus in the South,
A lone golden light shining wistfully
And I finally found the shape of the Big Dipper.
I stare at its lowest corners’ bright star,
An unfathomable size, and even greater distance away
Making me feel infinitely small
Infinitely calm
I trace with my gaze its tail
As icy white sparks fly lightning fast
Through the dripping-ink sky
And burn out faster than a blink,
Barely caught by our drifting eyes
The three of us talk, I sing, maybe to stay awake or maybe to pass the time
Bohemian Rhapsody’s bittersweet melody never sounded so pleasing to me as at 2 in the morning.
Our chatter of secrets is punctuated by gasps
Of us pointing out those bright streaks
We all make wishes,
For love, for luck, for answers
As celestial raindrops keep reaching across the sky
One bright orange jewel with a lavender tail
Burns beautifully by
I wonder why people make wishes upon something that’s dying,
Though spectacular, at the end of its life
“People wish upon things of the heavens”
Is your beautiful reply.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
to be
kneaded,
in squashy,
jelly ecstasy,
falling over
tumultuous,
a largess of
festivity,
woman,
not as much
as your walk,
talk or nature,
but that one
boom-rocket,
eminent, salient
feature,
lickety, suckety,
twistety, pressety,
lurety, bitety,
fever,
closety, graspety,
claspety, grabety,
clungety, playety,
severe,
twins to be
tended, a little
gorge, to lash
tongue betwixt,
to be clasped,
lurch after
each tip,
tender,
half-earths,
cast on a
potter's wheel,
sun baked,
shaped in
rain's fluidity,
winter's rigidity,
summer fire,
lover's calm,
luster's oasis,
sumptuous,
lush spread,
breeze at
a tree top,
monuments
in rhapsody...
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Natalie!
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.
indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t
this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?
why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover
say!
where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?
so add :
come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC