Smoking Gun
The mother I had is no longer here.
The heart,
it beats,
the lungs take what little air they can filter.
But she is not here.
She is alive,
but no longer lives,
or gives.
Her voice is coarse,
and hoarse.
When laughter rears it's ugly dead, black head,
it froths,
and it crackles,
and it ends in blood red eyes.
The contrast is stark,
light and dark,
you can see in her pale, sallow skin.
The smokes she smokes,
she croaks, she chokes,
she sears her flesh from within.
I nearly came down your path,
You exist only in an old photograph.
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