Cool

[Socks]

I was packing it and stood upright, pinched-sealed-and rolled it in the middle of tonight, and observed, that it smelled dank and did feel a little sticky and thick.

My fingers work fast so I had it done in an eyeblink, and before you knew it I had opened the door, and leaned there outside, under shadows and dim starlight.

Smoking the beers without moonlight. I felt the first hit--you know, hot, a little sickly--sweet--and just right. There was a wave of smoke, a mass of particles illuminated by my neighbor's spotlight, shining through the trees.

What was this? I walked and I knew it was the cigarette, which I used to fill it up. Now it was burning faster and filled up the lungs first.

I had made an engine. I had practiced a technique. And revealed a craft.

It was entirely natural. But fire was the key. That mysterious element, sparks others into life. Hissed the weed, something unclear, burned into pleasure aginst my ear, and I could hear as I held the blunt there, speak in tongues unknown, together of the magic and mechanics of my self deduced reality, and cause of present state affairs.

Repeatedly.

And I looked up as I normally do, and spotted a distant star blazing right above me. Directly it seemed. For a second it was unsettling, what if anything should fall, and crash into me? Or it could fall very far away, and completely miss me after all. How would dying be.

Who knew that. But it was a mystery. A clue, of sorts, of order and magnitudes and bodies of work. I thought, this was burning too fast. I could end. The core was dense and remained behind, smoldering into ruin there.

I should have broken up the pieces more, only o.3 compressed, but concentrated too. A mental note I failed to heed, nonetheless. It was plenty to turn the tide, and lift the veil beneath the eyes. If you will.

I found that if I licked the top side of my middle,finger, and got it a little wet, the blunt burns even and doesn't get too hot. And spares the skin. How royally awesome is that?

I nearly choked or coughed and that was that. I had had enough, and tossed the roach.

Me wearing this casual pied shirt, just like the piper. In a Villa somewhere on the sea, during a dark and stormy night, the wind across my face, the rain within my hair, smoking by the chimney, and under a glass paned hall. Like an aristocratic of old, controversy in disguise, with no money or fame, just the wealth and power I deserve.

And no prisoner as which I serve.

Now I am a poet in exile, with torches in the night, causes, and no fight, and no castle to call my own, but a fire in my heart. And a girl that I can love.

Sweet lines.
Damn my hands are numb.