not of clay

I spent a world of years contemplating the smouldering orange glow of oxidizing weed, the thin blue grey smoke of getting high, an illumination of the mind’s recesses made of silver, not of clay, tomorrow my friend is close at hand, where we’re working in a mine, twirling the slender joint between thumb and my fore finger.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs

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About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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