The smoke climbs like the soul of a snake
Swimming, in the invisible sand
And soon dissipates, fades toward the ceiling
Into the anxiety of this perennial air
Throughout continuous drags and plumes
I feel no better or release of pressure
On the expanding lobes of my beating brain
On the letting go of providence
With every tap of ash I fear the end
The stoic crush of its still-burning head
Put out in the pit of other lifeless butts
Extinguishing only a temporary pleasure
And what is left? Stink, stain, skin discolour,
Heavier breath and open conscience
The deep distraction of a narrow foresight;
One light of a flower blue in my convalescence
As always, your imagery intrigues me. I had to think about the spelling of "buts". I settled on it being "butts".
As "lifeless buts" though, it is interesting on its own in the sense of use in speech as an excuse.
Submission Name: Recovery
