She absorbed more smoke than top paper walls.
With that bleach-blonde hair,
golden as roving suns, she could
draw it down, the smoke, and the dreams
the smoke inspired.
Upstairs in her bedroom in her parents house
we became the smoke, rising human mist,
turned whiter and loftier, drifted upward
toward the ceiling, toward utopia,
brimming with laughter at a pointless world.
Where is she now? Lost in civilization
(she had a knack for invisibility)
like I am lost among the faceless walkers,
lost among the talk of lifeless lovers,
thinking of her and the smoke of youth;
this dwindling man, white wisps in my blood.
There's a really quaint Hippie saying'If you can remember the good old days..then you never got stoned'...passage of time? ...hmmhmmhmm
An interesting journey, and a path I've similarly trod.I enjoyed the memories as I now walk between the goal posts of acceptability, and tread the path of boring respectability and responsibility. Best Steve
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
love has its own strange tales...i liked the sarcastic humour and philosophy in your work Tony...lost, yes... but you re-discover yourself gallantly there...thanks...10