Mystic Journey

Red and yellow, Sunny and sharp, Garish to eyes, It left a startling mark, Beyond was pitch dark, As the irritating music, Wafted in the background, There was strange incense, of rose perfume and burnt plastic, He expected all to focus, On him, In a deep séance, With all of these jutting out, Twelve expectant minds sat there, He began and so smoothly, That no one noticed, He invited them in his eyes, They looked deep and pored deeper, They heard his voice, It embraced them soft, They were lost in warmth of words, The background and music, Was all lost, And so was irking music, All that was left, Were his pregnant words, With stillborn meanings, As they worked hard, To understand this mystic bard, He had already taken them on journey, From which they hardly ever hoped to return.