Tomb [7-7-09]

Tomb

The half smoked cigarettes lay decapitated 

from their cylindrical ash heads like mummies, 

crinkled and dry and ancient. 

The paper is wrapped around the strings of tobacco

like rags around bundles of herbs and god-like jars. 

Their neck stained brown with nicotine; 

a ghost of my inhales.

Laying quietly like cast off ammo cartridges on the windowsill, 

nothing but paper and tobacco without my hand and lungs.