Number Ten

I light a cigarette. I look at the blood moon and see a laughing skull. Have your joke, devil, for I am the bastard son of a princess, and lo! I have king’s blood.

I walk the streets to admire the cold if only to be a splash of colour. I’m the one they warned you about in the night. I light another cigarette and nod.

A trick of the eye in a poorly lit mirror, and all you see is the echos. Your mind whispers what it thinks your reflection means. The movement is a lie:

Light is meaningless without definition. Enlightenment is meaningless in our own minds. We seek to shed light on our darkness, but are we just shedding our darkness on the light? I light the last cigarette.

When I look into eyes of lovers, I see the deadness of the soul, surrounded by the flesh of intent. Do we really exist to just to lust for the same obsession of mind we give others?

It’s okay to bleed on me, for what’s another stain? I don’t mind setting hearts ablaze, if only to savour the moment in a photograph. So laugh at me if you must, mister moon. But I need another cigarette.

And so I keep walking.