"Sanctuary from the west!", hailed the mystic.
He threw down his rucksack, and the cool winds blew him home.
To his home in the mountains.
Rocky edges obtrude his rudimentary thought process.
His long-gone infant mind trampled by the concealment.
The world is but a basket for him to carry the toads he's taken hostage.

He then awoke from the rocky top scenery of the dream world
into the quiet home of his wife and children.
A profound sentiment of regret cycles his mind now cloudy.

He hobbles to his bedroom door, door.
"Where is there something more?"
To send lonesome men to sands of a long-forgotten sea shore.
Oh, yes, yes.

A universal case of the blues.
The mystic isn't but the only one,
who longs for the end of his concealment,
to be singled out as the chosen one.

"I hate heavy burdens.", he says.
"Quit creating the illusion that you're macho."
The acid rain that falls will surely sting the skin,
and even Hitler wasn't ashamed of wearing a poncho.