Affliction

My white little stick,
wrapped in death’s cloak,
looks so benign,
till it’s tip
burns red,
of it’s own accord.

my hands, the docile slaves,
my lips, the concubine,
the stick, my little master
eats my breath,
i am cremating myself,
a gradual burning of meaning,
the sense, only sad ashes.

an inspiration or emptiness,
i have forgotten which,
lighted the first one red,
then like perfect parkourer,
it slid into the gyri and sulci,
and deeper,
until my will was a cigarette,

i prowl the midnight street,
why i wonder!
hell bent on finding that 24/7 shop,
where half drunks come to grab a drink,
and zombies like me,
for a death stick,

it needs to stop,
it’s not too late,
that’s what you tell me,
but its all a mistake,
i have become my cigarette,
a mad speeding wreck…