Drifting slowly upwards,
It spirals towards the ceiling,
Slowly floating,
Caught by a slight draft,
Its smooth pain is destroyed,
Scattering it until,
As quickly as it came,
The draft is stilled,
And the spiraling continues,
Slowly dissipating,
Until finally,
It vanishes,
And the smoke clears.
The fires of Hope have burned out.

by Marshall J. Fletcher

Other poems of MARSHALL J. FLETCHER (2)

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