Cigarette burns in the ashtray. Hand that held it is limp.
I would, if I could, turn back the clock. Live again in the

serenity of promised beginnings. Dream once more of
a future spent growing old forever. But, forever is a

dream unto itself. It is a promise made, than broken,
than forgotten in the haste of breaking away. It is a hint

of something that has been discarded in the angry traces
of a burning cigarette. I have wandered back and forth

in the dropping of my faith. Limped through the tripping
of the heart. It beats in sadness. It aches in sadness.

It collects pumping blood in the veins which keeps the
body functioning even when the heart is broken.I have

joined my mind to the poison of living. Talked and talked
the same subject, over and over. Not resolving the issues.

Not addressing the problems. As I scratched my wound,
I hardly noticed the fleeing. The fleeting distance of mistakes

which are now realities of everyday breathing. Cigarette burns
in the ashtray. Hand that held it is limp. Voice that would speak

is silent. I am wondering what the future might be. I am
afraid, perhaps, but I must advance to see what it brings.

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