It’s a long, hopeless spell.

when colors burn into ashes.

and red fades into gray.

it’s when petals wilt.

and wither.

even when there are mornings.

and the rain.

whistles.

for it.

to blossom.

it’s devouring the poison.

and hoping.

that the monotony gives way.

to psychedelic escapes.

and momentary departures.

it’s when the insuppressible lets loose.

as it.

subsists in the empty crevices.

or the poisoned words.

and the stupor of a dreary.

existentially-angsty.

existence.

or not even.

it’s when marlboro lights.

is the only stick that sticks.

and wishing.

wishful thinking.

that as the smoke swirls in sad and nauseating circles.

and dissipates.

ascends.

so would this dry, dry spell.

when colors burn into ashes.

and red fades into gray.

* for you who might not talk to me ever again.