legs crossed over each other
hands by my side
i sit here in this chair
but i travel with my mind
i breathe in smoky air
and exhale wisps tinged in purple.
they form pictures before my eyes
in them i read stories better than any in a book.
my stream of conscience flows,
undulating as if a scarf stolen by the wind,
up down and all around.
never settling until the wind stops
when will the wind stop?
never. i hope.
however,
all good things must end.