Two centuries passed since the font of our landFlowed forth, hill to valley, from a shore lined with sandBut cared less for nothing, he watched as if stone(d)All he yearned for, acceptance; to not feel alone

*   *   *

In Castlemont schooling, eleven his ageThe summer was barefoot, the neighborhood ragedBegan he to see then, the strange, elite sectSecrete into hiding, repeated elect

Where did they go then? What did they do?He couldn't be shaken, he'd be with them, tooThe words "weed" and "pot" were heard whispered, but lowBeneath summer sunshine, determined he'd go

His closest friend, confidante, initial "A"And beautious crush for his friend's sister, "J"Together as three, "A" "J" and he planned itAn afternoon free-spirit anthem, but candid

Cool concrete patio, wood picnic tableTheir parents at work, isolation enabledA black glazen clay pipe, gold leaf thereon paintedWith lighting and passing, his innocence tainted

"J" lit and inhaled, and then passed to her brotherWho coughed and then wheezed, his distress could not coverThen high-fired earthware was passed again, smokingAnd hands built for playing were suddenly toking

He took his first lungful and held, and it stayedDetermined no choking, not a smoke wisp betrayedSo proud was this youth, his capacity newIn fresh-found love, hobby, his screwed lifecourse, too

*   *   *

Philosophy, culture of barefoot long hairPerception's Doors shifted his paradigms thereFirst smoking, then toking, then rocking and drinkingHe saw only highs in the midst of that sinking