In the haze of the evening, where thoughts twist and twine,
Our circle of poets, on a THC vine.
With giggles and snacks, and a haze in the air,
Words tumble and fumble without a care.
We gather ‘round couches, our minds set to zoom,
Chasing rainbows and planets from the bosom of gloom.
“A cat in a hat!” one boldly declares,
While another's convinced they just found a pair.
With pens like our wands, we cast spells on the page,
But our metaphors fizz like a soda gone sage.
“I wrote down a sonnet about my cereal!”
The laughter erupts—oh, it’s all so surreal!
Like wizards of whimsy, in the twilight we flow,
The words of our masterpiece begin to overflow.
“Dude, I wrote of the moon, but it felt like a plant,”
Then someone notes roots and a garden-like chant.
But as the high lingers, our rhythm starts swaying,
Each stanza gets weirder; it’s like, “What are we saying?”
“Is this line about love or just really sweet tea?”
The muse is a riddle—we’re lost at sea!
Yet with every mad quill stroke and each chortle profound,
These moments of madness are pure joy unbound.
So here’s to our scribbles, our laughter and rhyme,
In the realm of the stoned poets, there’s no such thing as time!
Hazy Humor is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0
