I watch the streams of smoke as I exhale
They show me words I never knew I knew
They seem to know the breath they would regale
The breath, the smoke, a wispy grayish blue
The streams of smoke are remnants of a gift
A gift from Mother Earth who loves to give
I watch them rise above; I watch them lift
Above the earth, where stories often live
The stories of the smoke begets the streams
(Who says “begets” unless they’re fuckin’ high)
The stories fill the smoke with more than dreams
And dreams of smoke will lift us by and by
It makes no sense, these things of which we spoke
But sense is not the realm of streams of smoke.
This entry was posted on Monday, August 14th, 2023 at 7:40 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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