smoking emptiness
By kevin
The smokers sit with me, in me, their words of change, emptiness like a crow crying vainly against a terrible blue sky against an ugly world full of beauty. "you're dying" I observe blank faces respond, unassuming: "so are you." black tar inhaled into their lungs - rather like the darkness of my poetry both deadly, it’s the passion that counts, my dreams flowing into words, their anger into smoke, both floating away snuff it out and move it on, life's too precious to waste. 2/99,1/01 © on May 14 2001 11:00 AM PST, Kevin Watt 0 • 1
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"The smokers sit with me, in me,..."