Grey (smoke)

Grey ribbons dance, wriggle, soar.
They blow thin till they forget themselves
and loose hold of form.

Suck a spark into a flame.
A tiny sun inside paper, burns up the line,
glowing hypnotic against the night.

Exhale, propel, whisper clouds into the still air,
blow columns from my lips in steady streams,
or let it curl and churn gently from my nostrils.

Never really a smoker, but occasionally in need
of distraction, of dizziness,
of an occupation for my hands and for my mind.

Something simple, yet complex in movement:
reeling streamers for my mind to tangle up with,
something to take in as wretched and ugly
as the feelings
behind the grey of my still eyes.

For the times I feel grey inside,
and would rather watch than be.