Cigarettes

I don't count
my cigarettes any more
just empty the ashtray
when its full to the brim
filed ash trays are a mess...
of agony they stink.

the burnt out butts a residue
of a night poorly spent
sleepless, sans dreams or stars
fragments of lament

no breeze travels from heaven to earth
nor sweet memories sought
the night like ash of burnt dreams
A disillusioned Nótt.

I bring flowers to fill the emptiness
but the fragrance lost in smoke.
an addict? or an abandoned lover
of dreams that change their course...

there was a time I counted
the rolled poison puffs
and named each before lighting
love, longing, lust...

I wondered if I would
just count them so I sleep
lighting my own pyre
would gods my act forbid?

Hooked to a slow poison
I find that sadists' bliss...
the space between my fingers
now tanned like my lips.

but I no more count my fags
I just measure the what is left...
And on the smoke I scatter dreams
To night some dew I gift.

*In Norse mythology, Nótt (Old Norse "night") is night personified.