Smoke Rings

April 18, 2011
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I know your type.
You've seen the world through your own haze,
and your surroundings became continents.
And even though you flew your own feet into the line of assembly,
assuming you needed no childhood,
I heard your mind clutching its fingers to the rusty fence behind your yard,
where you could just glimpse that thundering path
that called for you with its bittersweet glitter traps.
And you followed.
You surfed on smoke and brain damage till you were edging the asphalt.
But you were pulled back.
bungee cords you had strapped to your own arms yanked you back into some form of safety.
But now that you had felt the tar
burning your feet,
and watched your brain float out of your skull,
you felt that you had seen it all,
that fundamental experience of 18 and under.
And now, with distaste in your esophagus
welling up in your sham lined throat,
you sit back, scoff at the children
hiding your desires that your mind would degenerate back to your body, and you could be who you are.

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