There is Light

3

 

He sits chain-smoking a six-pack of the finest cigars

He’s ever had the pleasure of smoking

Bequeathed to him upon the occasion

Of his father’s death;

One hand balancing the fat roll of tobacco against his lips

The other clutching the ashtray like a lifeline.

 

Soon, he will make the necessary telephone calls

But for now let them all arrive to the stench of burnt tobacco

And the thin shifting curls of smoke gathering like storm clouds far above

Let them know that where there is fire, there is light

Show them all he lived

If only through the ashes of the only pack of cigars

His father never smoked

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The Art of Loneliness

It was Sunday, the day of madness, and I alone knew that.
Awakened in the midnight hours by another magnificent work
By the artist himself;

I’d spent the evening studying another of his masterpieces,
And I suppose that the indelible ochre ink he preferred
Stained my dreams;

I carried his ink and quill with me as I lay me down to sleep,
And, with great care, placed them on the night table
Nearest the door;

I laid down on his canvas, and covered myself in his melodies,
As the clock rang to announce the coming of midnight
And the silence grew louder still;

It had been Saturday, a day of merriment, a day of rejoicing,
But Saturday was no more, and the artist was indeed inspired
By its absence;

And in the darkness, he handed me a light – a painting,
A self portrait carved into a shard of the mirror I’d broken earlier,
Entitled – The Art of Loneliness.