Age.

My fingers are numb and old
From the lick of the flame and the crumble
Of hashish.
Lungs,
Dormant, smoky chasms
With distorted echo; a charred throat
And oesophagus.

Glazed eyes,
Two artificially pumped cherries that ooze
Lucid juices, thick
Artificial tears, like cream.

It is my gateway to physical pain, I
Embroil towards humanity
With each thrust
Of smog.

All metal is this prison, all pleasure is my soul.
I am content.