succumbing to my poetic impulses

such is the nature of sunday, the slow serpentine crawl of smoke across your arm from the seventh cigarette smoked today.

delusions of freedom as the seconds burn, one after another and everything is as fragile as the wind which unsteadies the leaves ever so slightly to offer us a glimpse of the pale underbellies.

the clouds are wisps of dreams you can’t remember, pieces of images long scattered across the ocean of sky and another moment has passed, folded into the ashtray of sand and now another moment is burning.

heart, mind and lungs in conflict on this sunday

such is it’s nature

an idle melancholy over distant streets and faces, a half-formed tear that an autumn breeze pulls from the eye before it can ripen and roll.

a drag from a cigarette

a long pull of beer

then another moment extinguished into the soft hush of sunday.