Do I know a little mystic me?
A one that I would mystify?
A little bit of golden honey,
Something I wouldn't deny.
A sweet drop of blue, into the clouds,
That would pour rain with a gentle breeze,
Or a tumultuous mind, now free from pain,
That finds warmth the places that freeze.
Do I look a little into the sea?
Away from the storm towards sanity.
Or would I eat an apple with a grassy green
That tastes so true and sweet.
Do I see as far as the eye can see?
Or smell the great burgundy.
Dust that cover the now spying clouds,
A faith broken and bent so still.
A return of the tumultuous brown,
A hope for a rain that'll never be fulfilled.
The green apple, now tastes so sour,
That I search for the honey gold,
But it's bitter too and furthermore,
Spoiled, brown and rather old.
And now I've solved the mystery.
Sweet time, I bow to thee.