The Mystic

The labyrinthine topiaries of thought —
Its light-pulsed dendrites,
The tides that flood its estuaries.

Where do your secrets reside?
Where does your love go to hide?

We are messengers from the limbic.
I want to put my finger on your lust.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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3 Responses to The Mystic

  1. wow, no shit, killer last line. great poem.

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