New Life

Hark; its something disheartening:
A strangled strand of words, sobbing,
Greying up the skies, like a broken piece of life.
Waking up, and the feeling of winter strains
Not just my limbs, but the calenders and the clocks,
Because they know what its like to move forward.
The elegant smoke of a cigarette, between his fingers,
It expands, and twirls, and disperses about them,
A theatrical bewilderment; I wished I could be like it.
To be like water and evaporate;
To be like music and resonate.
Into the sun, into the farthest corners of the hall.
Yet I see now that mysteries are burdened by the books,
By the coldness, and the lack of warmth in their eyes.
They comb their hair to their heads and walk in circles,
Wondering why they are thought to be such a wonder,