The Cigarette and The Process

Elle lay on the roof of her house, smoking, looking up at the stars.

Late into the night, restless, agitated, and trying to find a soothing, a calm.

The stars had given her hope and longing, yet they shone on emptiness.

The cigarette and the process gave her a focus, but the starlight lost its secrets.

 

A bright, silver slash in the darkness, as a falling star fell to earth, humbled.

Elle wondered if it was an angel coming to our aid from heaven, as hope faded

Or if it was a wicked angel, coming down to stoke the coming flames.

Maybe it all depended on the hour, the day of the week, or what prayers came.

 

Elle thought of the one who loved her. She thought of notions of happiness.

The war was coming, and what was happiness, when bloodshed came?

What was her hopes and dreams, as a third of the stars were swiped down?

No calmness beneath the endless stars. Her world and her mind burned her.

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