The Troubled Years
Intricate lines of blue
trace sketches before my eyes.
I gaze at them,
lost in their transient existence,
as they lose their identity in the soft cloud fed by my exhale
that hangs beneath the light like a luminous aura.
A formless entity.
I stare into its depths in mute recognition
occasionally offering a silent query that returns unanswered.
My minds fades, recedes deep within itself.
Useless images float before me.
I try to hold onto them but they slip through my grasp
like formless apparitions and I am left with -nothing.
Like a void filled with the echoes of silence,
or a darkness lit only by shadows.
A feeling fed by numbness.
I reside in contemplation,
twirling the butt between my fingers
slowly watching my hand carve a slow trace
through the ether,
drawing the fuming incendiary to its destination.
Pausing only to correct my aim,
I plunge the ember into my flesh,
pressing hard to maximise the effect.
The air sizzles.
I recoil at the first bite,
the burning dagger stabbing at my recognition.
A wave of painful euphoria sweeps over me
and for a brief moment I can feel.
ln an instant I exist, I am real, alive.
But then, as the ache subsides
and merges into the ambient static,
my briefest of companions is cast aside,
and I am left with - me.