deepundergroundpoetry.com

Ritual Smoke

The container hides within it, and also itself.
My arm slithers like the snake in search of prey.
By touch, grasped loosely between two crooked fangs.
Until the box comes into view.

Wooden, darken stained, to my preference.
Detailed in decoration by some unknown hands, art of iron.
Held holy.
All movements enacted slower than normality's dictations.

Four fingers lift the lid on hinge.
As if they were revealing an elder scroll.
For what it holds is sacred.
That i once held for granted.

Plucking it so delicately.
It shimmers in the lone light of the blue television.
Detailed in decoration almost microscopic.
From my favorite sculptor, Nature.

It's softly laid, nestled between sand and fire.
Now solid and sleek.
Admired where it rests for a moment.
Until brought in for a kiss.

With flint sparked, the elements begin their dance.
An epic alone that deserves it's own ode.
A song sang by itself.
It's lyrics just a moment in this theatre.

The flame peaks out it's lazy head.
Bowing from the fragility of siphoned air.
To bow before Earth's masterpiece.
It destroys.

Embered to watch the greens turn into greys.
Spreading as if over land.
In waves that reveal dimension.
With unmistakable pungent.

And in it's rush it's cascaded.
Baptised and cleansed by the water.
Enhaled in mist of purity.
Until my lungs convulse.

A violent expelation met with tears.
Glorious fuzzy brain.
My cheeks raise in smile by their own doing.
I am gone, yes i am here.

Charcoaled index presses the burning.
Smacked lips and wandering tongue.
Reminiscing of a flavor that is still tasted.
Unique by all means.

As the view becomes filtered by the cloud.
And the instrument slowly returns to it's shelter.
They are put away, until the next day.
Unable to swim, yet still floating.

Arms stretched back without ripple.
Lungs still lightly splashing.
And in more balance, comes followed deepened breath.
Here i am again, as so many times before.

Reality seems by conclusion, not good enough.
How? I ask in all seriousness.
And with a shrug i will consciously enjoy my time despite.
Detailed in my own decoration.
Written by DCLXVI_1989 (Garrett Asa Hughes)
Published
Author's Note
I may not see well.
I may not hear great.
I may not smell right.
I may not taste correct.
....but i feel good.
;)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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