Tobacco Trances

With greyer days come greyer thoughts.
All is still, here in the bay,
This slovenly haven;
The sea is flat
Viscous jelly,
The sun is hiding,
Wreathed in cloud,
People are quiet,
Lost in thick air
And covered skies.
Slow moving, there is a sinking feeling.
Time is a triumphant quicksand
That need not struggle;
There are no gargling rasps
As lungs fill with its heavy tar,
It will have us all soon enough.
Instead we breathe deeply
The pungent smoke of
Sallow hours, consume
The rosy glimmer of days
And spit them out pallid,
Devoid of promises
And holding nothing anymore
But dying and torpid exhalations,
To what butt-ends do we burn
These cruel things?
And will this end be
Or a crueller awakening,
Deprived so surprisingly
And all so suddenly
Of our liberating curse?
Too late we are released
From our tobacco-trance,
And have only the days
Of frustrating and faded bodies,
The days of knowing and sad smiles,
To relish the bitter and beautiful
Which we are no longer part of.
‘Tis more bitter for its beauty
More beautiful as it is bitter,
For life is all at once mad, wonderful and
Nihilistically finite,
Sweet for we must lose it
And therefore sweeter in dying days
In which one cannot enjoy its nectar
With a withered tongue,
Cannot sup from the bottomless and luxuriant
Cup of youth that which they once did
And must realise now that they did not truly savour.
We are truly poor and blessed creatures.
Rich in what we cannot keep,
For there is no safe
That can bound and hold the
Oozing and grinning substance of time,
No tools that can aid in absconding
With such a curious enigma.

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