They're penning a poem of self-description.

Many mirrors and masks,

Each self-sufficient as an autonomy.

What bothers me?

The consequential clash

Of characters that save the ass

Upon which many men sit.

Another cigarette is lit,

They've gradually grown diffident

To forced reason and rhyme

Between leanings and lines

Lying adjacent, yet lacking rhythm.

 

They'll inhale a drag

And dismiss the past

Before the smoke dissipates.

Each hit relates to the

Poison spewing from their lungs.

Bellowing above, rolling off their

Tongue, reeking of ash.

Liars, accustomed to the taste,

Quicken pace and nearly race

To reach the remnants and flick

Away the reflection, the guilt, the sin,

Then return inside, all doors locked again...

Such a waste of oxygen.