The Beckon.

SmokeNight after night I fight this obsession

With a slow entwining death

that squeezes my chest.

Little by little stealing away

choking.

My air possession.

Dawn after dawn I indulge again.

Add a spark to the flame

that burns my core

numbs my senses.

Sinks it’s tar-black talons

into the flesh of my brain.

Day after day I hasten the final call

tease closer the reaper,

Beckon like a beacon

to the pall.

From dusk to dusk I wish to break

the coil.

That a moth spirals toward a flame.

The constriction of habit

of breathing away

my endless toil.

,,,

3/6l98 – on smoking.

Oud-Berchem, Antwerpen, België