I want to do art with cigarette ash.
I want it drawn on the backs of those who are lost.
My embers sizzle.
I’ll draw them a map
to where they long to go.
See, here.
Don’t you see?
It’s a map of the path on the road you will take.
I write high though,
don’t you see?
My words are gibberish to those
who still bleed red.
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