Smoke Your Art Out

My thoughts
and prayers have
travelled
far and wide.

Like a
joint in July,
they waft
through

midnight
horizons,

each a manufactured
crisis of
wild inhibitions
or lack
thereof.

Through city lights and
the trees who
kiss them using
nearby branches;

under buses we were
thrown

but rise
again in
imaginary slow dances
with
old tragedies,

automatons of hope.

My thoughts and prayers
have stowed away
so long
it seems, in a

crumpled cardboard
box of death,

holding the one I meant
to smoke alongside you,
friend,

forever hoarded in
your honour

(ten gram
monster)

I’ll never allow
burnt to
its end.

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One thought on “Smoke Your Art Out

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