I was entangled in the hue,
Guessing and seeing supernatural,
Singing songs not yet sung,
Writing make believe from pockets,
Slightly outstretched on a line,
On a drum head beating my head,

There was a contrast somewhere,
Whish could have been summer,
Now I told of the breeze,
Now the wind blew the trees,

Sometimes the shade is the better option,
When the sweat stings the eyes,
Tiptoes through ghost roads,
Echoes of infant pasts,
Cries of lucid transparency,
Only seconds remain of them,

I was getting to the point,
I was hitting the joint,
Soon it’ll burn away to dust,
Soon the ash will enter lust.