Treasure Island

Nicholas Peter


Ashes


I smoked the last cigarette,
in the red Marlboro pack,
of in-house body decay,
and black lung birth canal.

The whirling smoke,
reminded me,
of you,
a maelstrom of hazy sex,
and tsunami-flow hatred.

You were an astronaut,
making the lunar module mission,
to the translucent center,
of my rib-cage moon.

But all things burnout,
even your spaceship,
and my cigarette,
return to hasty ash.

Submitted: Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Edited: Thursday, October 24, 2013
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  • Susan Lacovara (10/15/2013 10:39:00 PM)

    I invite you to read my poem, Ashes Of Old Lovers, which I find mirrors some of the emotions you put forth. I enjoyed the read. PEACE (Report) Reply

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