Amid the smoke you greedily inhale, You claim your life is free, unbound, and frail. Laws and sins you turn into a jest, As if the world were but a stage of unrest. A piece of ganja you offer to the sky, You say, "For God, to make Him slightly high." You laugh, content in your disgrace, Thinking yourself free from retribution's chase. Yet you forget—God needs not your smoke, Nor is He swayed by the world's hollow cloak. He sees you, deep within your soul, Empty, fragile, without a goal. You pride yourself on sins you tightly hold, Using freedom as a shield, bold and cold. But in the quiet corners of the night, Is there peace in your soul's desperate flight? That piece of ganja, for what do you offer it? To silence the conscience you omit? God needs not your leaves, nor your hollow grin, He only asks you to turn from the path of sin. Remember, you are but dust in the vast expanse, No ganja can ever redeem your chance. When the fire finally touches your shadow's rim, Will you still laugh as the flames grow dim? -alittlemantodea.