Cigarette Dreams

As I sit here at a table in my apartment complex,
I find I'm nervous of the consequences of actions yet unseen.

The things I said upon the phone,
They were not mine,
I cannot be held responsible for what I've done.

A third party, speaking through me,
Gives me the confidence
That I've never had.

Only now, as he cigarette smoke lingers in the air,
Am I able to make heads or tales of the impending situation.

These words will be seen,
But never will they mean,
What the end user desires them to be.

Just the story of a late night call
Down the boulevard of imagined transgressions.

The agoraphobia sets in of today's impending events,
While the symphony of cicadas plays unfazed.

The cicadas - the throngs of people in an abandoned movie theatre,
The Agoraphonia of it all.

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These words I write, these thoughts I feel
Flow freely as their song from my pen.

Another cigarette, another chunk of time lost in the end.

The ash collecting on the table,
The missing grains of sand from my eternal,
Are no more than one in the same.

A moment with children, with family, with friends
Lost beneath an avalanche of ash.

"One more - The last...for now"
But I have only just begun.

And I know it burns my soul
And I know it kills my soul.

Forgive me, for these are not the writings of a bleeding heart,
But of a boy with a pen and some smokes.

The cicadas continue, undaunted
In their beautiful cacophany.

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For who are we to say our time is near?

"My time grows short"
I seem to say, as I glance beckoningly into the great abyss.

"One last - then none"
As I sit at the damp wooden table,
Remembering times not long forgotten,
But forgotten nonetheless.

...and the cicadas song burns its image in my mind

...and an opossum runs through suburbia
As the sounds of the highway linger behind.