Poetry appears as thin threads of smoke
off the tip of a candle's burnt wik, as
hot wax sticks to the hairs on
the back of my hand while the blood
of my pen is drawn across the page and
my irritation is hidden
behind a screen of fog; rain pounds,
trying to break down these walls
and today,
I grab a lock of hair and pull
but I don't wince,
my mind has dissolved into absence for
a moment and though I smile,
the smoke in my eyes
makes it impossible to hear.