Fine fabric of poetry closer
the frayed edges of language, loose
threads of thought we light, to keep
from unraveling. What lasting value,
if any at all, rises in the smoke, is
sustained by memory of the lyrical
flash.
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Only if ambition had a stink, it would smell like burnt human flesh: the acrid smoke rising from a human pyre of moral combustion.
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Oh my gosh
oh my goodness
Holy smokes
what's up.
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This earth is such an ass world curocity that they disturb and break the unit of terms of life cycle sun is only yamraj family in purana so that bole nath speard smoke out of Sagar called ulta with rays but fuckng science lecture final episode
Agdori mahabharmanand
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Aghories of india I smoke in baissa cilam sey ye dabangi hai par mar Talwar ki hai
Mhabharamnad Aghori
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The trails of smoke and fire, follow the path of water and ice.
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She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.
('Circe' by Michael R. Burch)
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“Never allow dreams to drift off in smoke,
for dreamers wishes come wrapped up in hope.”
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Ty, July. I'm choked for words to toast. And when my earth departs in the wake of mercury rising, and ashes become ashes and I get smoked. It would certainly be poetic to use the pass on being born again.
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Do not take their religion seriously, though they will. Understand that religion is just a habit they have, the way you might smoke, write or draw, or go running.
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Smoke it all or give it up
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i often write her name in smoke...
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"Act when you first smell smoke, not once the house is in flames."
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Y'all smoke to enjoy, I smoke to die - John Green, Looking for Alaska
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