green

spiral gunks of crawling snakes,
squeezed copious bouts of sanity..
the tabs had done the boy some good,
sweet smell he whiffed of clarity..

a world he was, where sinners danced,
in unison with saints divine..
anarchy was à la mode,
in these grasslands full of bine..

the realm was stalked, by a gainly mare,
a paradox profound..
"would today and now be memories,
when status quo comes around?"

the monotony of the sound,
as his feet hit the ground..
another journey that never was,
has cost him pound for pound..

Tradition child, tradition..