Memory Weapons
5 a.m. had surfaced
Weary I ascended from my bedstead
Keen I rose the first of many cancer sticks
to the sleek rift of my lips
Oh, how the flavor of fresh, young smoke
Knocked at the base of my esophagus
Caressing my uvula with infinitely
Unfathomable mountains of beauty
Copyright © Glenn Mccrary | Year Posted 2012
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