One Final Hit

I am choking on heaving mouthfuls of power
and obscuring my footsteps in smoke.
Through a tremor, I grope my way up.
My hands stammer, poised to hit
a mocking silhouette. I’d rather not stay
here longer than is necessary, being this hungover.

The cool sky is lifeless, gray, and hungover,
pining for some long gone power.
I suddenly recollect my stay
within an aperture damp with smoke
and a grieving ache that seemed to hit
me in my temples whenever I stood up.

From such depths, there’s no way up,
waking up every day with the hungover
wreckage of a thought. Like a calculated hit
to the gut, it saps you of power,
throttles you with balls of smoke.
Indeed – a most unfortunate stay!

Presently, I am more than eager to stay
out of such suffocatiotion on my way up.
The air around me is fetid smoke,
keeps me breathless and hungover.
Clearly, I’m no well from which to draw power.
I still cough with every hit!

Fumbling around for at least a fleeting hit
of passion, I mark a place to stay
in the event of overbearing power.
Somewhere where at least I can get up
despite the vengeful, hungover
trepidation that could render me but smoke.

I haven’t paused, not even to smoke.
So I suppose my morale has been delivered a hit
to its blubbering maw. I grasp a hungover
exhalation determined not to stay.
Now I no longer feel like standing up,
and I want nothing to do with power.

For all the smoke expresses too well its power
in this hungover machinery where I stay
for one final hit before giving up.

-r. miller


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