Hope has been hung on the words of strange men
The cogs of clocked avenues are wound
Twitching tightly in our shadowed hearts
Waiting for the footfalls of gloved shoes
To whisper rehearsed apologies.
Outside the men stamp out cigarettes
Wordless in the sleet-stung lot
Angered by their impotence.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Facination with ciagrettes, have we?
ReplyDeleteLol I guess there's just something about having a cigarette that causes reflection...it's like a pause from life, a time-out. I really don't smoke cigarettes as much as my poetry lets on though lol
ReplyDeleteIt's a very visual divice in poetry...one knows the look, the smell, the feel of a cigarette and the time-pause associated with it. Works very well in the emotive qualities of your work. :) I, personally, don't smoke...but I can deign a lot from the image of a smoker. Nifty.
ReplyDelete