A thoughtful mystery unravels itself within a dirty ashtray.
Dozens of mouths and lips suck the filtered marrow of tobacco magic.
Sin after sin is displaced by denial.
They say to use the right tool for a job.
Staring at the runners and wondering why they can’t clear the hurdles.
Distance or height?
Or perhaps, they are staggered out improperly, only at intervals that would guarantee defeat.
Someone needs to set those hurdles up,
all in a row.
A race towards a tomorrow, that when reached in the present, will only be lamented for the regretted past it will become.
Burn, a blazing burn.
Stars that go quiet, must go through a period of fierce interest and catastrophe.
Then the science is applied, and sold along-side other things.