Cigarettes and Angels

When an angel smokes a cigarette,

it’s a sign that no heart is too sacred to char black.

When the cursing red glow of flickering light

is enough to distort and stretch a smile into a wicked wolverine snarl

you know the Once Was and What Happened and Who Were

have long since been snuffed out in the ashtray along with the embers.

There’s no pleading with an angel with zombie eyes,

maybe the angel was your mother, your father, your uncle, your grandparent, your child, your friend your best friend your husband your wife

it doesn’t matter,

it all stings the same to watch them drown in smoke from the peephole of a filtered life.

The once-angels,

Morphed form hate, loneliness, and experience,

have crumbled into ashes too.

Because truth is…

When we smelled the smoke…

We’ll shatter our best perfume to deny every gray fate.

Every fume that leaked into our lungs was another soldier,

Marching, spiraling, downward,

Plunging to his uncertain fate.

Smoke always drips from white lips that plead innocent

The black smudges on their mouths are enough evidence to smear the words on a chalkboard

the conclusion of their lost cause.

The way the curtains always close before we open our eyes,

And blinking takes up most our lives.

White secrets seek solace in black throats

The dusty cupboards of our minds lack the will to polish hearts

They don’t bother planting trees for us anymore;

What’s the point of oxygen if everyone refuses to breathe?

Now we’re all just tasting smoke.