The Habit

With a pen strapped, leashed, to one hand
And a cigarette wedged into the other,
He hashes out his words in queerly neat script;
Not legible through calligraphy but fervour.

With death as a ghost writer you appreciate
The present, and every moment pours from nib
To paper with a savoured appetite; for, life
Spent, ink is now one’s essence – use your blood.

With talons, useless digits, does the fag burn
To the cracked skin or is one fire measured
Against the other within? No keyboard for him,
The clumsy claws don’t cut lapidary intent.

Are these afflictions what drive the addiction,
A burden from on-high, or is that human hubris?
The crippled scribe does not cease his work
When he is stricken with a final sentence.

All these things of life now; the insignificant,
The great, the magnificent, the hate,
Are infinitely outweighed and yet, balanced.
Such blossom outside the window; another cigarette.