See the triangle of sky
over the poorly painted wall;
see the clouds at least going somewhere
unlike my life; not at all.

The smoke from my cigarette
moves more than me,
it snakes from my fingers
carried on the uninvited breeze.

The ill-fitting window
in my poorly painted flat;
the clouds have left
the triangle now and
the sky has turned near black.

Soon the moon
will fill the triangle
over the poorly painted wall
and I will go to bed alone
to wait for the light of the dawn.

 © Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Type something here preferably in English

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