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Poetry

weed fiend.

The smoke curls up out of the end of the pipe like opium, but it’s hashish in the metallic cylinder, etched with faux oriental carvings of dragons and demons.
Eyes red, and face forward the head lilts and sways to the psychadelic rock out of the bluetooth speaker.
Then, soul to soul, the hearts and minds spin together in the vortex of human experience; a windrush of race and age and gender, through the colours of sexuality and mentality and society: an ever-changing spectrum of flesh and blood and bone.
Rising up is a delicate balance of light and shadow, hung on the mantel of animal desires.
Resist stepping back and only move on with the courage and guidance from within.
The smoke can hide clarity but some things are too big for the human mind to take in all at once.
The smoke is a blessing for those in denial; a screen for those with something to hide, and a comfort for those in the depths of despair.
It disappears back inside the metal cylinder and up to the heart of the piper. There but for the grace of me goes I.

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