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Memory Weapons

5 a.m. had surfaced
Weary I ascended from my bedstead
Keen I rose the first of many cancer sticks
to the sleek rift of my lips
Oh, how the flavor of fresh, young smoke
Knocked at the base of my esophagus
Caressing my uvula with infinitely
Unfathomable mountains of beauty

Written by GlennMcCrary

Published 29th May 2012

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Re: Memory Weapons

Anonymous

29th May 2012 10:16pm

Now I understand how my dad felt every morning when he reached across the night stand for his smokes. To bad he's dead. I will keep your poem as a memory to him. Thank you, Glenn!