On a stone slab with a sheet,
I'm hot and rotting,
like a carcass boiling in the August sun.
There's no light but a dimly lit candle,
all the way across the room,
flickering in and out of consciousness,
very much like myself.
I open a window,
the breeze is hot.
I open my head,
it's steaming hot.
Wind whips and snaps,
blowing out that last candle,
the flame relinquishes light.
Now it breathes new life,
a steady smoke stream into the black night.
It's hot,
smokey and hot,
clouded like my head,
like my thoughts,
out the window,
like my head,
like my thoughts.