The body yearns for passion,
The soul its wants true peace,
The day is in its fashion,
The week the very least.
I sit upon a mushroom, dancing with the smoke,
Like arctic ice that’s crushing, my life is but a joke.
All the questions asked, are left to the genius few,
The rest of us are masked, the time is through.
Bring joy to oak wood tables,
And smiles to the sick.
Bring peace to souls unable,
To cure them of whats struck.
The journey is of peace,
As wisdom says the least.
And time will march in flow.
Like your shadow.