Mystic Draughts Of The Outer Minds. Poem by Michael Gale

Only when we enter a very dry and arid draught, upon our lands, do we miss the rain...
Only then, do we rest in pain.

Pain of the yearning for wetness to the soul...
Can that be our only goal?

We do after all, deserve peace of mind...
There might at times, be too much suffering of the Humid kind.

Lips parched with a crack of skin...
Dry as the cotton, upon the gin.

Fall, oh, please come down and fall? ...
Bring best with it, your rain heard call.

Your call, now heard beating against my skin felt pelt...
Cracking of the lightening, simmers deeply beneath my sweltering fear of sin, I've felt.

The rising aroma of the misty, swelled....
The much wanted, the one I smelled.

At last-No more pain...
Launched hard, since the absence of rain.

No more pain hurled at my heart...
No more sadness, of my part.

A grin spreads across my face...
To a now, well, watered place.

Bad memories, now gone...
Remembered, only after awakening, from a slumber, before the unalterable dawn.