I light another cigarette.
How I used to hate the smell
when I was brighter.
I still do — in a way.
But sometimes I fixate
my gaze on the struggling
red flame fighting for freedom
from the black tar and stifling wrap.
Only to erase, dead and beaten,
into grey acid fog, dark cold ash.
And I can kind of see myself
dragging through Eden
in all that mystical haze.

Autoria: Miguel