With smoke hanging- no!- lingering,
upon his cracked and chafed lips:
he, blankly, gazed off into nothing.

Suddenly: he's wincing, possibly picturing-
no!- pondering the way life drips-
no!- dribbles by, and away, with everyday.

Into a slumber, he, gently, slips:
unto a place where no soul may infringe-
upon his right to dream about her rays.

"More magnificent than the creator, itself," they say.
Yes!- Beautiful as an old mountain range
when she sings out syllables with those lips
- ever so confident and casually.

If only in this slumber, he could stay:
to lie asleep and dream about her all day.
Alas, reality surely soon, forcefully, rips-
no!- tears him away from his desired place.

Oh! Wouldn't it be something- (beautiful)
to arise to her, blushing whilst, nudging-
his ribs with her fingers?

Such a beautiful script,
his dreams are avidly depicting;
it makes his real life seem, quite, sickening-
really.
But: he tries to stay optimistic about it.