Second-Hand Smoke

Lights flicker behind tragedy-stained eyes.
Demons dance amongst the shade and rust which
floods vacant rooms filled with lightning torn skies.
Fatigue grips the nerves. Tugs. Turns off the switch.

Dribble seeps like a stream of forgotten
thoughts. Eyes glazed over, completely detached
from disabled grey gunk that has rotten.
The cap to the mind removed, left unlatched

as consciousness gushes onto the floor.
Bars of solitude now forbid mental
entry to this abandoned tomb. No more
light. White smoke escapes out from it's nostril
and the rigid frame slumps in a peaceful
state, where pain and distress is forgotten.
A bulb glimmers above the maternal
ward. A new life curled in wool and cotton.