1/16/03
Patiently he would await
The general dissipation of church and state.
He would like the kind of cloudy world
That he could carve by threading himself
Through the smoke.
And the smoke was somehow akin to him -
He was immune to its delirium,
Could navigate the pleasures of
The pursuit of Sublime Simplicity.
With felicity,
He would describe his hazy soul
In words unkempt, lyrics from his latest high.
We all flow around him
As he is encased in his safe and sacred haze,
Waiting for the year
When we will all be one.
We tried to talk to him
And examined the passions in his pencilled words
At his demand.
He let us watch him on a pedestal,
Separate and smoky,
Saying, "there will be a year
When we will all be one."
