The days when everyone was crazed for
sour diesel? An unmistakable stench
capable of rendering a goat blind
from thirty miles afield?
A taste for subtlety
comes with age. A punch can be
delivered in many ways. The first time
understanding dawned and eyes peer in
to the depths of a cave and see
shades instead of black velvet draped
at its mouth.
The latest craze, the waves wash
and tumble dry. Snap and then fold.
Those days are far behind. What's in
a name. A shotgun for a fly. An axe
for a bird. A two mile tall mech
for a skirmish.
Degrees only come with age.
Hues, and tastes, and contrast.
Every fire is unique.
Every lick of flame its own blaze
across the lake of space time and
find a galaxy to call home.
