An Addicts Story

This is a small illusion that graces a few. A man devoid of responsibility who slowly slips into smoking hash, eventually getting addicted to it. Savours the taste of The extravagance of Lord Shiva. In a small meeting with himself. The man discovers the conflict of divinity and mortality. Sometimes a mendicant who loses sense of worldly responsibilities is often praised for the effort. Whereas an addict is looked down upon and cursed for wanting the same state of Nirvana that the Mendicant craves for.
Brahmand = Universe
JataDhari = The one with matted hair
Rudraksh = A stone with blessed qualities
Sometimes an introduction ruins the readers appeal of the painting his brain paints. This will hopefully not do the same.

Formless wild smelling smoke
Dance around your halo
Adorning the masculinity of your blue skin
Locks spill in watery dross of the soul
Across those warm arms that engulf the brahmand

Sip my subtle poisons
O ‘ Jatadhari, lock me in your third gaze
Of sheer destruction.

In a coil of scoffing serpents,
You lay, cross legged
As they slide to make
A path for you.

As the perditions of the past
Sway in your honor,
At your bidding of doom

Anklets adorn your feet
Music of which bind
Me in womanly stupor

Awakening flames of
Frictional dust that gather
To bring upon a storm of death
That circle your feet
To stir calamity in mortality

The aura of the dull rudraksh
A tenfold blinding ray of
Psychedelic pink and crimson hues
Beckon, as your offerings we gather

As you raise spirits of the dead
In the power that burst through
The pearly drops of sweat
That dribbles down, due to immortal trance.

The moon contributes to your
Addictive daze.
As shades of grey intensify
The passions of scarlet red.

As numbness courses through the veins
They are silenced in slumber
Blazing through the body
In rushes of divine heat
I sway to symphony of
The swell and fall of
Your deep breath.

They engulf you in tides
Of bright white light
Waves of crystal blue
Lash your body like sprays
Of holy water from the Ganges.

As he ascents the dragons peak
Where blizzards are mocked by soft
The more gentle snow.

He strides right through you
Bursting into plumes of rich color
Leaving you ice cold from within
But a lot less incomplete.

The phoenix ash
Gathers in a small storm
To be born again
As he walked by them

The man burnt his finger
As the stubs singed his skin
I’m an atheist whispered the man to himself.
Pushing thoughts away.

Har Har Mahadev
He said
Puffing hashish
As he slipped back into the spell.