Morning; I stare out the window,
Watching the dawn drenched city grow,
Sharp edges in repose stretch against light,
Wrapped in the wind as it listlessly blows.

My mind; pulled like thread through last night,
Weaving together thoughts in plight,
Suddenly stops; shocked by abstract static;
Two separate acts of will locked in fight.

One; against the wind and frantic,
A fit of limbs lost in panic,
Save for a lit cigarette and its core,
The stick on a spinning plate, all manic.

The other; the same, and no more,
But held still. Down to the last pore.
Perhaps a mime in study, petrified,
Yet- even the wind and smoke would not war.

It was all wrong; “move!” my mind cried,
Could it be time itself had died?
I set my drink down to shout some protest.
As if heard, I watched as their eyes complied.

They pierced; with a twinkle of jest,
Surely, a sparked light to impress,
And the ember core laughed a brighter red,
Stagnant smoke blossoming in the egress.

In that small space; all else seemed dead,
The wind there could not come to head,
Rather it would bend over and around,
As not to touch form or smoke as it fled.

Still; the core burned something profound,
Until that twinkled eye was drowned,
A stream of tears that would not stop once freed.
Poor soul was not frozen, but instead bound.

And then; I felt in me his need,
A ravenous little red seed,
That burned like a cigarette set to fire,
And consumed my mind with an intense greed.

Bring this to end; spoke my desire,
Movement is all that you require.
But was I speaking to them or to me?
How could I ever let this transpire?

I breathe; but my lungs won’t agree,
Nothing inside of me is free,
Until my foot burns hot from dropped coffee.
I scream; look down. Look up. Nothing to see.