I am alone, cradled by the winds foreboding chill.
Comfortable in my imposed solitude
surrounded by reminders
of my perpetual decay.

Cigarette butts, smoked to their ends
pack after empty pack
like carboard gravestones
and the fleeting aroma of stale coffee
clinging for life, for warmth,
inside an empty used cup.

Their voices, rather
their personified regret,
mocks me outside my world of comfortable
numbness.
They, like myself
know that my end will be marked
by a cardboard gravestone
soon.

Alone inside my silence,
when sleep’s pull gains its strength,
my unconscious will hinders it advance.

I can feel it forming
as though collecting power
beneath my skin.
Waiting for the pre-eminent strike.

God I wish I could surrender
into that unconscious decline.
That place of dreams,
that time of renewal,
yet my will denies it
with little regard for me.

And I, like the coffee cup, am
desperately clinging for the warmth.
I, like the cup
have become a stale example.
Used in my haste,
a momentary fulfillment.

So under a cigarette’s grace
I disappear.
blanketed under it’s ghostly cast
begging the winds chill
to claim what little warmth remains.

A fool’s last request which he submits
against reason.

 
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