Laying motionless in the heat,
contemplating the psychedelic treat.
Levitating in this darkness; a comfortable room
(that might be a sardonic tomb).
Behind eyelids, a world oblique
has an essence of Angélique,
and shows what could be nature true …
… more colours with each turn of screw.
But as you act, o politician,
prior qualified (smiles) mortician,
the clock inevitably revolves
and no white paper ever solves.
So in this wakeful trance, I race
to find a secret smoking place;
somewhere you cannot legislate,
for wordfullness incarcerate.
Furthermore, should this sanctuary discover,
authority will not prevent my smother,
as dreams are merely in the head
and cannot be misunderstood when dead.
©2011 Hey Hey
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