I sit in this slow place of dark wood and leather,
Filled with the untarnished pure scent of fresh smoke,
Blended pure sacred tobacco,
Reading of mystic worlds,
Sending prayers up in white-grey whirls.
This is not a place of rushed cigarettes and worried addictions.
This place between times nourishes the soul,
Filled with reverie and daydreams,
I'm walking between unseen worlds,
Never having left my seat.
This is a place I am awake,
Past going through daily motions,
I savor the consciousness I'm allowed,
Hurry doesn't exist here,
Only insight infused with delight,
Coffee-swirled with magic.
If the universe exists in my head,
I am at its center here,
Exactly half-way between my ears,
Neither grounded nor adrift.
This space isn't for everyone,
Yet all are welcome.
I study and write and dream and wish,
Without desperation or despondence,
Literacy a gift of our ancestors,
The way their spirit can literally be held in my hands,
A sacred trust indeed.
Some day soon I'll hear drums,
I wonder what worlds I'll then wander?
This is the time that softly glows.
By: Daniel A. Stafford