comfort dressed up in black today.
it morphed in a pale kind of way.
constricting the nature to stay
alive in color from white out.
a grim look took its smile
and twisted it for awhile.
it perverted the original
sultry sway into political
ways of a sexy depression.
(faking delirium
can only ache
what was once
raging happiness.)
the way it feels is criminal.
it's made to make the wanted
become terminal in itself.
its wronged posture posed in posters
blows past colder groaning alleys
with pictured exposed motors
making the smoke sound healthy.
and the exhausted filter smell
savors failure in comfort.
that repugnant odor stains well
into a sewer stench of fumes.
rumor has it -
cheap cigarettes in cold cartons
told of its taste taking part in
what may seem like a blood-sucking
organ, but a mere facade
of sanity verses the state [of mind].
(comfort is no longer with us -
in our hearts. only in our brains.)
the funeral feels like death
convulsing us forward to test
another's breath and bother stress
until flesh contorts from torment.
(entitled headlines say this
is the turn of the century;
comfort has gone mad,
literally.)
