Ashtray hands
enveloped my voice
in the warren echoes
of a lost child,
fumbling words
written with smoke
and cigars
and lips
and in ever new voices
that kept fading away.
Ashtray hands
kissed my hips
with lips of crimson tides
and grays in shades of everchanging
exhaled my vultered eyes.
No more will they raven your touch
for they cannot see.
I'll just pick up my things
and go
'cause I've given up
my treacherous ways.
I'll smoke no more.
I'll smoke no death.
So take a mint
and let the wind
smoke you,
instead.