Life´s a joint

 Smoked life
now thats a spicy slab a ham
He rolled it up
the ingredients intact

The paper like a canvas
to be stained by heat and resin
and the boiling oil
south of the ember

conversations
each little talk has it´s purpose
once its done it´s done
flicked like a butt roach

Oily smoke in the present passing through the future
that tightly rolled joint collecting the gas and THC
through the remaining journey of your life
into your lungs into your brain

start coughing as you get closer to the last inch
whats the point of god we roll our own lives
you smoked it as if it were cream of the crop
as if it had meaning just to burn through it

where does that smoke go?
Does it just linger in the ether?
What manner of unfulfilled desire is life?
Is death?

Is the atrocity to leave life without asking the questions
Simply consuming and being consumed
your soul a mere reaction to it´s surroundings
No purpose beyond offspring and pleasant appearances