Frozen Smoke
Weekend nights, the time where youth meets age
and the light drizzles down from overhead bulbs,
the world freezes as what little warmth
floats and curls around the room in thoughtless patterns,
the floor is stained from bad choices,
decisions that permeate the earth in common splatter
and come together here and now.
I find it quite comforting
all of this
a knock on the door and one more arrives
bearing a soul as heavy as the sky,
the dark sky of nighttime,
but caring little either way for the light
Scared and moral minds may scoff at
(unknowing their futures)
the night
but I bet they never see it coming
nor will they be ready
“I don’t want to go there,”
squeal the conscious thoughts of the bourgeois
“It’s not nice.”
But instead we say, through broken laughter
“Your places are far too nice anyway.”
As the smoke practically freezes in the air
and tumbles to the concrete floor in a broken fashion,
we look about the room with smiles,
heating our souls in preparation for the final day
and endless
nights.