i had on cobweb lenses;
snaring and entrapping every flickering light.
low glow and sweet smoke sat heavily and important,
torturing me into accepting that reality was better than delusion.
daring glances flew across the room dodging incantations;
their echoes are still bouncing blindly off my walls.
trembling inconsistency spilled itself empty;
its glass was sitting clear and clean, ready to rest infinitely that way.
voluminous anthologies laid themselves open;
pages blank and expectant, varnished with the intoxicating scent of hope.
the ground we were sitting on: leaves, sand, dirt, clay, grass?
i wouldn't have known hovering in my cloud of celestial fog.