The matchbox on my table beckoned
from the corner of my eye,
with a target sign of red and white
printed on her face.
She wanted to sacrifice her power
to the cigarette between my lips;
the cold parent burns her children
scarring them with a tainted will.
Then I've seen her near the kitchen stove
helping to bring warmth through our food.
Does this little box intend
to fix this manufactured world,
to smoke the diseased
to their fall?
YOU ARE READING
Amalgam
PoetryThis collection is an amalgamation of thoughts and experiences I had as I went through my teenage years and now my adult life.
