Another poem written during my 2007-2008 depressive period. I very occasionally smoked cigarettes, perhaps a flair of self-destruction, perhaps an urge to feel a certain mood, perhaps merely a chemical whim for experimentation, or mark of rebelliousness, or measure of my desperation for control, I can't say exactly why, but as the following poem suggests in a less than subtle way, I have strong feelings about them. You may notice in the first version that I have attempted to format the poem to visually represent the form of a slim cigarette held between two lips. An alternate form is below, with the syllables and words (and meaning) slightly adjusted, I like them both in their own way. May this whack anyone reading it on the head with the sense to stop smoking or engaging in any other self-destructive behaviors, and, so to speak, "light a fire under their posterity."
Burning Low
A fire
dies beneath
the mantle.
A candle burning low glows in those
misery-ridden eyes, exudes demise.
Death stick,
wick, fuse.
Burning Low (Alt)
Fire dies beneath the mantle.
A candle burning low glows in those
mis'ry-filled eyes, exudes demise
A death stick, wick, fuse.
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