Maybe it’s us

The wheels of time turn,
And we follow,
Like slaves,
To the tune of the piper,
To the lines written by fate.
Perhaps they have not been written yet.
The hand that writes?
A question to be asked.
Maybe it’s us.

The Forever Smoke

The cigarette burns.
The smoke taps the spine.
The response arrives in lines of gibberish,
That the body fails to read.

My insides churn.
The black takes its time.
The smoke rolls and dives in the Forever stitch,
As time caters to our final need.