Marlboro Blue – Benjamin Moore – HC-153
By FranciscoPS
Serious when he doesn’t have to be,
Witty when he doesn’t have to be.
Cigarettes lay in his closet,
But he doesn’t smoke
It’s funny how…
Ironic, somewhat
Seeding his thoughts,
He takes his time to harvest.
He wraps his mind around his thoughts,
Tight, as if to never let go.
He uses his time to think,
About his next move.
A light on the tip sets the fire,
Ashes gradually form from what he had,
And he makes use of what remains.
Ingesting his thoughts, consuming them
To the core as they slowly vanish
From what they were once.
Black clouds of grief
Hover over his head and thunder.
Soon after they disappear,
The storm seizes and
Everything is sound.
His emotions,
Aren’t cloaked by his success.
He sparks another fire,
And it all happens again.
Clouds over clouds over clouds.
Seize to be…
It’s funny how…
Ironic, somewhat
How he does not release any smoke.
Still, theres an addiction.
I love punctuation in your poem and the way you describe the cloud of smoke and compared it to a storm, amazing job buddy .
ReplyDeleteThis is fabulous. I love to see the way this has transformed with your revisions!
ReplyDeleteYou must share this with your dad; maybe give it to him for Father's Day.