PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Within these cloud filled skies of pot smoke I can see the outline of my friends, in chalk.  Side walk the line in an arbitrary way, to the graves of the people I once knew.  Pass by the keebler elf tree™, and talk to owl. He always seems to have a wise crack rock lined up for me if pooh's vice ever runs out.  thinking I'm weak, he pesters the fester that rotted away my moral dilemmas.  thinking this time I'll snap crackle and pop a pill, get lost on a trip or maybe even ride the rail of his glamour train.  but, as usual, it arrived unfashionably late in my life.  so, i boarded, up the doors.  leaving no gateways for drugs, or k-holes to be dug.  leaving a cavity, a job for rhinoplasty, no deviated septum or trails for me to follow.  because i lost the path to being genuinely hollow.  so i wallow, in the fact that I'm alone in this ward, lord please clear the smoke so i can see the hope in my friends eyes.  these graves are dug shallow, which is easy access to necrophiles.  so I picked up the grave yard shift, making sure nobody will fuck with them.  I sit and wait for the bell to ring, while I listen for the scratching on the coffin ceilings.  The last famous words of any lost friend of mine were, "don't worry about it man, its under control its fine."

       the sun rose, and through the clouds i saw, the darkened sky lighten up, spreading its hazy glow to every stoned marked up friend i had.  some of us, grown up together, other, only been friends for a few winters; still, i hold the same capacity for love.  Like a preset attribute, I'll be here waiting like a loyal dog for you.