Ashes from my cigar fall,
Softly with disregard on the barren floor,
I watch and wish my troubles would shed,
Hell bound on chariots of fire.
The fumes from a suckle,
Travel into my eyes,
They sting and born a tear or two,
But I question my intuition,
No verbs in my vehicular,
Just mere thoughts swimming the smoke,
Out around and in my swollen head.
Surrounded by inanimate objects,
Of which I can’t be intimate with,
That need keys to be triggered,
I mean started,
As gunshots erupted,
From the pistol I shot in my bed.
But I sit legs crossed,
Parked up like the car that grins towards me,
Looks me dead in the eye,
Engine off and calm.
I’m similar, just like him,
Motionless, engine off and calm.
No trigger but I stumble,
Stumble on the butt,
Of my now charred cigar,
As my scattered thoughts trail,
Ascending on train tracks,
Into higher realms, at the top of my skull.
A station of rowdy customers,
That are my minds acquaintances,
Light headed I swing back and forth,
Rhythm fails me, breathing hails me.
I look into the distance, but see the other hour,
The one in which I get up and leave.
My thoughts beckon to me like an old oak tree,
Willing to die, to be cut,
A crime against mother nature,
The prodigal son that left home,
She weeps for me,
But I’m numb with disgust.
– Smyekh David-West.