Sometimes your words are mistaken for poetry.
I made a note of this smoking stokes on the back porch with you
Overlooking the lake.
I asked you what you thought I was in my past life and you said a bird.
I couldn’t fly though, because as a baby I hit my head against a tree.
You said I did manage to fly in a circle a couple of times before I died.
The life before that I was part of a dandelion. A petal among the many petals.
I didn’t mind though. I thought it was cool and simple.
What about my life before that one?
You were the molecules inside of a Samurai sword.
But the man who owned me wasn’t a very good fighter.
He died shortly after, you said.
Sometimes I don’t know if you’re a pathological liar or maybe you are an angel
Telling me all these spirituals truths.
Nonetheless, I think you’re brilliant.
So what about after that?
Well, you were in the 12th dimension before then. I can’t see into that life.
But you’ve lived through four cycles.
You ****** in the smoked, threw it out, and gave me a half smile.
And I cocked my head to the right, squint my eyes, and read through you.