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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #1398026
A tribute to the English pub.
Lips part and coils
of whispering clouds
trickle out of his flaring nostrils.

Eyelids close in
intoxicated satisfaction
and after some seconds

breaths out slow smoke;
intense mist patterns
by merry moonlight
illuminated.

Swirling through cold October nights
the ghostly column grows scarce.
Form and life are lost,
unitil it comes

(as he pulls again on scented smoke)

to nothing.
© Copyright 2008 Zebedee Crowe (conrad at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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