The humming of the electrical wires
gently existing
outside my window
as the birds lay alongside there,
I blow out the candle,
and wisps of smoke as
clear as dead angels
stroke mildly over the
opened book,
unable and unwilling
to bed its contents.
Forever glistening,
never vibrant.
The aroma lingers
like a feel-good memory
of relaxed relationships
and back when
dreams of education
were smiling.
Until they were frowning
at the coarse, coughing pockets
lined in my trousers.
As I stood there coughing too.
I flew. And I flew. And flew.


Inspired by the style of Charles Bukowski's poems

Dreams, Hope, Free-Verse

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