petty chests of ash

and i would smoke a thousand cigarettes
to amass a shroud of smoke
so my soul would awake
in a ferocity--to feel intrigued and enraptured
by all these things of wain--

but even i am waining
and to note my graceful fade,
the dull of lightning
the slight of fire

is just a splendid waste of time

graceful ashes falling,
a rain of thirst--
everybody, everything
so goddamn unquenchable

but even i am thirsty
so parched for some essential grasp
from some provider
i always speak for

smoke, fog--mystery,
so necessary for a visionary
so convinced of their epic quest
that will offer some tremendous resolve
to the moaning vicissitudes of lowly morons

dragons so real outside our heads
demons so apt and necessary beyond our hands
to wrangle and destroy and conqueror but

is this not some solemn distraction?--
have we become so bored with heaven that
we decide to engage in these silly games--
sacrificing our truer nature for a petty chest of ash?

destroy yourself, world, destroy yourself,
destroy illusion beyond shadows cast

CAN WE NOT SIMPLY TURN AROUND
AND FACE THE SUN?

and yes my eyes burn but atleast there isn't
some maddening assault on mirrors through

this smoke
i breath
and inhale

this smoke--lies or
some compassionate harboring from
my own demise--

i will not know