the yellow moon winks
through the slow rolling clouds.
the night greets the smoke from you black lips
like a a cold kiss against a warm body.
the moon winks out like a candle
tired of waiting for its body
to gather back into light.
sometimes to burn
means to give light;
sometimes it means to die.
when the moon returns,
it is chopped in half by the night
slowly unravelling itself.
time is the master
of everything it seems,
even your unyielding body
peering into the mute concrete
where all the cigarette
stubs gather like forlorn worhippers
at the footstool of their god.
you want to lie down.
you can't because the sun
will soon return with all its loud shine,
making you feel that the darkness
eating your chest
from inside is a lonely thing.
you flick the light at the tip
of the cigarette and shadows
unfurl their gowns like sails
from the burden of your hands.
you become a narrow speck of hope
peeping from behind ash and dust
until that too winks out.
you feel hope exhale and exhume itself
from the tomb of your body.
you look up and the clouds
have fled down the horizon,
leaving a yellow half eaten moon,
still shining on you.
still shining on you.
