A GOLDEN FEATHER

The deeply cracked and darkened ash crumbles,
As the forgotten souls of centuries ago sweep past,  
And fill our heads with contradictory thoughts,  
My green leaf like eyes drowning,  
Showering the lit cigarette,  
Enhancing my dark desired craving for death.  
Brutally broken and cut lips drawing death from a golden feather,  
And ambitiously effecting my oxygen source with a deadly virus.  
My mind still arguing with yesterday,  
And soul dying tomorrow,  
I shall weep today,  
And still crave that ever slight long lost craving,  
I am all but familiar with,  
But if I draw tomorrow,  
It will be unknown to my innocent fingers.