Do you want some?

A poem about my favourite, green vice

It's a self-induced, all submerging fantasy; tickled into daylight by bud and smoke.

It's flight, a miracle of aviation confined to the space between your lips and lungs.

It's tomorrow shoved carelessly into your pockets and told to behave.

It's clarity, but only for as long as it takes the smoke to clear.

Its sleep, a long dreamless sleep in a mind too intoxicated in its own wine to war with me,
tonight.