A Pack of Cigarettes and Me

A pack of cigarettes and me, smoky blues and me. A plague of desire, intoxication too many and me. Snowy depression; mountains of submission, a muddled city and me.
Morning lights flicker on wounds, Birds of anguishes chant around, seas of misgiving trudge on and me. Loneliness tamper beds of my shores, woeful images weave into my filthy plains. Distanced and so discontent a fragile ash burns in veins, denied and so defused a redundant world awaits and me.
A pack of cigarettes and me. Counting stars in murky skies, absorbing fears in gruesome nights, rambling thoughts in peaceful demise, I am an accepted victim without any acceptance on my part.
I hold neither confession nor voice, I am like a magnifying silence that doesn’t know its bounds, I am fluttering notion that aspires no destination no console, I am abandoned channel that holds no water, no blood, dry to feel any emotions I reap on buds of disbelief, I sweep onto to invisibility of my relief.
A pack of cigarettes and me, a dock of no refuge and me. Circles of life, covert miseries and me. A day full of dispossession and me, a sky full of contradictions and me.
It is only me, a clueless hermit among millions; it’s only me a pack of cards that tumbles in tragedy of awareness.
Tearing these papers, burning these words alive, expressionless and so repressed and me.
a mark left to ponder, a wall left to repaint and me. Fixed in deepened dis-harmonies, rigged in callous symphonies. A heart toils in vociferous winds, a pack of cigarettes, a generation mislead and me

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