It's cold.
But I remain standing in the shadows.
I watch intensely as smoke billows out from the ashen end of my cigarette.
I could move into the warm sunlight;
But the walk is far too difficult to bear.
I just watch my smoke.
Slipping out of my lips without a sound.
I shiver.
It feels good to shiver again.
A snake slithers around my shoe.
Death from cold,
Or lonesome.
It wrings for life,
But I know now, after many attempted search and rescues
Not to touch the process.
After a cigarettes time,
It gives up…
Or in.
After death strikes,
I feel nothing;
Again.
The shivers desist.
My knees move without demand.
I struggle through the thorns;
Angry with me for invading their territory.
They knowingly fool me

With their peaceful blossoms and berries on selected branches.
But the blossoms are just as deadly as the thorns they protect.
I bounce through them, avoiding the beauty more than the pain.
Resembling myself in habitual life.
But I forget to let that phase me.
And I light another cigarette.