Author: quitecertainlylost

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 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.

As changing faces take over my judgement of right and wrong,

I slowly turn into what I’ve tried so hard not to be.

Who am I?

Too many smokes,
Or none to be found.
It would really have been great,
If there was such a thing as just enough.

This is the boon,
This is the curse.
Golden yellow flamingo,
Riding golden yellow waves.
It knows what it is.
Or so it thinks,
While the world watches in anguish.