It is the year 202X.
At the base of Mt. Fuji,
I was chatting with a friendly ghost.
They lit the tip of my frosty pink cigarette,
and my lips swallowed a volcanic fire.
I taste a network of lonely black streets and painted fine lines,
upon a dewy, tear stained canvass, crying in a corner.
solar flare orange and magma red dance
a diamond dance and melt into a soft smolder, the final act which escaped my yawning mouth.
A pale pink rose bloomed from my lavender lips,
and your pearly little fangs
scratched me silly, caressing my core, the center of my exhausted, emerald earth.
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