This summer, I peeked
under my bed
and dusted off the ghosts
of the past.
I took them out in the sun
and hung them out to dry.
Surprised the stench leaked
this far into my living. And instead
of looking under my skin,
I pondered on how long this blunt would last.
Burned my fingers
and scorched my shirt pocket fry.
During my coma,
I ran the halls of the sky.
Shirtless against the precipitation of life,
I came upon clouds
that were puffy and white,
black and charged,
and gray with strife.
nothing is purely white, nor purely black
but a shade a gray that you must unpack
work in progress. always open to feedback
