This is a poem about smoking. Burning through a pack of Ten. Ten moments in time. Ten streams of conciousness. Ten pauses.


The first? A smoke screen hiding inner fears.

The second blasts the fear, yes every trace.

Third one  blows up clouds that squeeze out ashen tears;

Fourth a signal, steeling jaw in tired face.


Fifth a hazy day dream full of fierce desire.

The sixth an inferno. Lustful. Burning bright.

Seventh draws memories, both joyous and dire.

When up in smoke, eighth burns away perceived fright.


The ninth smoulders, impregnating cloth and skin,

Tenth leaves marks, welts of ash, ground in deep, like sin.



2 Comments Add yours

  1. Matt says:

    I hope you haven’t started smoking!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Tom Tide says:

      No, no. Just saw an empty packet and wondered what the smoker was thinking about when he/she smoked them.

      Liked by 1 person

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