I light my money on fire.
The higher the flames get
the less need there is
to be seen.

Smoke fills eyes
with warm haze,
carrying away the pains
of being awake.
Beauty lies between
the holes,
but the smoke knows
those special spots to go.

It fills space
with wispy substance,
wafting gently
through and out.

The sun outlines
the last tendrils
as they wiggle
into the final ascent.
Their ashy remnants
collapse in the breeze.

I light my money on fire.
The high is better.