Soot

I Am 

Hunting to improve

Methodology. 

Digging into philosophy

Studying what it is that I trade

For my time, 

And how I feel and assign

Meaning. 

Ghosted. 

Words tacked down yesterday

Blown. 

This, a known pattern. 

He. 

Touched down, and

For a moment, pumped me enough

To strangle inactivity

And wake sleeping lions from their

Comatose dens.

How many more years will pass

Until the imagined inhalation

Turns to empty soot?

At 60, the action, I imagine, reaches delirium. 

The brakes won't matter, 

There'll be nothing to pump. 

Delirium without recourse 

Is a maggot ridden steak

Rippled with the rotting promise

Of loss.