The hill in Hawthorn Park was notorious for attracting stoners ar night,

They linger at the top,

Out of breath from the hike,

And take a drag from death whilst sharing stories under the stars,

They contemplate ridiculous ideas,

That seem sound in their heads but know better not to act on them,

Even if they had their laughs,

They watch their thoughts bubble and shift into spiraling wisps of smoke,

And they can swear they spell something out every time,

Something for the moon to read while taking the night shift,

These stoners create and recreate events,

To their advantage,

And they open up to the vast greatness of the speckled sky,

Hoping the moon tells the sun,

Of their lives as nocturnal,

Before setting into the day.