Couched

There's smoke in this room,
here where I'm sitting on a throne
wreathed in what my seventh grade
science teacher revealed as cooled ash.
and it dances on it's ascent
as my state evaporates.

My mind is everywhere.
I've got a passport to prove it.
I keep one of the ripped out pages in my shoe-
the one with a stamp that reads HEAVEN'S BASEMENT.
That's what I imagine awaits underneath our soles.
That's what your folks might call Hell.
I ripped it so that I'd never go back there.

The journey's more comfortable when you realize
that instead of above us,
Heaven exists all around us.
Even now it's clear to see,
through drooling, coughing eyes
soaked in drops of smoke.

I wipe my brow
after another epiphany
about nothing.

A rough draft of a Shakespearean Sonnet

What Dreams Become, and What We Make Them

At night when lights are lost we fade to dreams

Resist fatigue by reading all alone

The Tea is hot within the pot that steams,

While outside wind is dancing, cold as stone.

Succumb to sleep and find your bed with haste,

For dreams are what you’re longing to explore.

The tea has left a bitter aftertaste,

The ticking clock resounds beneath the floor.

Ideas, thoughts, and pictures flood the mind,

As you will drift away without control.

Hallucinations one cannot rewind,

But every rainbow road demands a toll.

Abruptly Death appears with scythe and hood,

You sweat, you shake, but pinching does no good.