He sits in his old
Decrepit house.
Smoke fills the room.
Next to him,
A bottle of whiskey,
Empty as usual.
A Marlboro burns slowly
In the ashtray.
Will his life flicker out soon,
Just like the cigarette?
Dip spit coats his harmonica,
A thought to himself,
Maybe that’s why he can’t play
Like he used to.
He picks up his pen.
Looks at his paper.
Thinks.
Nothing.
He looks around,
Sees all the cases of memories,
All the cases of heartache,
All the cases of his soul.
He strums his guitar one last time
Before placing it on the floor.
A note, one that used to be so
Familiar,
Now,
Just a stranger
Floating in the
Smoke-filled room.
Never to be wanted,
Never to be played again.