The sun is out,
Half its head buried and hidden,
in the thighs of mountain peaks cascading,
along the horizon.
I am drunk.
I pull out a cigarette pack,
and strike a light with a cig.
of all the wrong instances I might die,
about my constant
and dangerous flirting with death.
about actions of mine,
that are in rebel with the commune.
am I being true to my self,
or am I being a danger to my self?