A poem to Raymond, whom everybody loves, originally composed on a waterproof smartphone in a sea of love, which was hidden under the pile of garbage that my bum-pals that have no pen names, or pen-pals, or names, for that matter, brought to me as an offering on the 1st of April 1877, exactly 111 years and 7 months before I was brought forth to this world, because some anonymous prophet told them this would bring luck, joy, happiness, food, and, of course – shelter from evil (he was lying):

If it's fantasy you seek,
to E. Feist then, you must speak.
All he writes is all there is,
for his words, they move the seas.
.
I would write, but I know naught.
In my heart there is a draught.
Hidden desert - golden sands.
Few my love can ever stand.

And so far I've talked to many,
a reply - will there be any?
I know - not, yet I know naught,
all to question, I was taught...

So I learn, I borrow wisdom,
from the great, the ones with vision.
They can teach, the few that grasp,
concepts from a long forgotten past.