Smoky in that head of yours — 
can’t see to think, right? Can’t think
about what you see?
Right. You can smell it
through all that haze.
All that fragrance
of roasted cells and spent fuel
with the weight of 
a wildfire out of control, the kind
they give names to;
the Canyon Burn,
the Summit Fire,
the Gully Blaze.
You’re waiting for
the name of this one
to manifest while choking
on its smoke. You need to
adjust your expectations.
Might just miss it if
you stay in there.
Might suffocate
if you don’t break out,
dummy up, admit defeat
at least for now, 
burnt bauble, ore without
value, trinket
on the blackened floor, 
dead man from the neck up
with nothing and no one
to Lazarus you back
to bright.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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