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“You should write more,”
Says my internal psychiatrist.
It is healthier for you than cigarettes.
I think.
The poeticism is lost, however, in the macabre smoke
Exchanged for irony that
“The pen is mightier than the sword.”

Something ought to remind me, more,
Of how insignificant my life is in the scheme of things;
Brought about and taken away by accidents
Swiftly orchestrated to create or destroy.

But as I sit outside on my front porch and think
Poetically
The yellow leaves of the tree shown golden
Under the glowing street lamp…
I look at my cigarette and think, instead,
Of how the insignificant, little things,
Can change so much.