HOT BOX

Eleven thirty in the evening. Trusty; 2005 Honda, Cold inside him. Our fortress on the borderlands. The cold would sting our skin. But coats, keep us safe During Winter's bite. Armor from her rath. Grinding flower in a mini grindstone Outside our communal Castle. Late in the night. Warmth will come from fire. Loading our bowls with The essence Of mother Earth. Tourches at the ready To set ablaze Our glass Alchemist's beaker. Water bubbles and the power is released. Smoke fills his metal body. Thick smoke. High fumes Fill our twenty first century horse. So thick we can barely see. We cough With every breath. We reach new dimensions. Vapors knock on the door to our lungs. Dence and strong They barge into our brains. They bring laughter And joy. We are stoned, We are baked, We are cooked, We are High. We toke what the earth gave us. We exit trusty. Bellowing clouds Disperse into the air. Waving Goodbye with their scent.