Erraticness

Stray

The lit up cigarette was lessening,
As he blew off... the smoke was fading.
He grew up on the tragic world
where rebellion was done and not just told.

There were no facades to mask the broken,
Nor detoxifier to kill the deep, filthy bruises swollen.
Those falling debris are the only ones here;
No gullible people that mind your plead to hear.

He sat on the sofa with the lighter,
Ironic, even it can't make this life brighter.
Miracles never existed even when he hoped,
Migraine lived in him too long to be groped.

He's a bystander who gambles for living.
The glint of hope he had died from believing.
Money, blood, cards, cigars and ash trays—
For he deems himself useless as one of the strays.