See that ashtray,
that glass clock without hands.
Beneath the layers of soot
time turns black.
Another ash tumbles,
losing heat as it falls.
A carbon copy of the last,
filed quietly away.
The glass clock upon the wall
reflects smouldering embers,
like the eye of a gypsy
that burns to glimpse fate.
I cannot filter tomorrow,
or rebreathe yesterday,
yet the smokescreen appears
to witness predictions.
I suck in thick grey seconds
until lungs can tick tock.
The answers on the exhale
too fine to comprehend.
If a deck of tarot cards
becomes a deck of cigarettes,
death still waits to play
when I crack thin cellophane.
See that ashtray,
that glass clock without hands.
At times, when it is empty,
the moment remains clear.
Then another ash tumbles,
losing heat as it falls.
So shall I one day,
so shall I.
c) C.Butler 1995
