Cigarette smoke from
The ash tray rises
Dancing grey
To its final home
Yellow stains
Upon a painted ceiling
An artists canvas
Dried and alone.
Nicotined fingers speak
Of many years
Dampened eyes
So many fears
And the walls insist
Remaining mute
Stretched in paper
Memories loose.
Like a place
Never seen before
A face at window
Life behind a door
A place that you
Will never see again
Yet still remains
To pertain.
-
Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: May 21st, 2026 02:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 46
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments6
Excellent write about a long time smoker. I have seen people with yellow fingers, its gross. Thank you for the read.
much appreciated, thanking you
There is a stillness here as if the yellow stained ceiling. Well written
thanking you, always much appreciated
You are most welcome Norman
As a child I likened the sight to the lengthy process of smoking foodstuff that was once living creatures. Amazing poem here, my friend 🙏🕊️
thanking you, always much appreciated
Most welcome friend🕊️🙏
Norman, this really moved me. The whole poem feels like a room still breathing long after someone has left it behind. Smoke, stains, papered walls…it all carries that quiet exhaustion of a life worn down slowly over time. Haunting piece, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
most kind comments, thanking you and always much appreciated
well written
thank you for the read, always much appreciated
Waiting for that bus gave you nicotined fingers. You must have had a bout 500 fags while waiting! heehee.
thats true, didnt even smoke when I first went to that bus stop lol
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