The heavy Midnight air still lingers even at 4am,

it shifts and pauses, floats and stops but never moves

far from your door.

Exhaling the drag end of a cheap nasty cigar

and blowing a kiss to the tendrils of mist

that collect at your feet, numbing them ahead

of the perfect summer’s day to come,

you are reminded that

for inside every good man

there is a villain that the public

want to see emerge,

a Captain Hook for their imagination and mouth

to run down and tell scornful, smoke driven stories of

despair as they watch the dying embers of the fire drift

unhappily away.

They can point their fingers in judgement

and laugh with derision

At those failings, whilst they desperately cling

to their own beating black heart,

tick, tock, tick, tock,

disguised by good intentions.

 

Daniel’s King would ask for the interpretation

of why smoke collects at the feet

of clay

that holds up Gold and Silver

moulded as any sculptured statue must inevitably be,

to return to dust and the prize of adornment on somebody’s

stained fingers.

There is no clarification forthcoming,

no explanation that can be read,

dust does and dust will do

it will blow as surely as the wisps of smoke

that finds itself in the closeness of a muggy mournful morning.

Dust and smoke, the head of gold

and a body ready to be ravaged by lions

in the sand

filled, carcass laden  Den.

Breathe deeply in the smoke the cheap cigar.

See into the end and gather the fumes

that come your way, the burning embers of

your personal Captain Hook.

 

Ian D. Hall 2014.