A Poem Never Named

A cigarette rests between my fingers
I sit alone - the hush of night, the frost-lit lamps
enfold me like a shroud of quiet grief.

I gaze, hollow-eyed, at the ember's fading glow,
a stubborn spark
shrinking with each breath I steal.

Its warmth pulses, faint and fleeting,
while smoke coils thick like ghostly thoughts.

That merciless moment draws near -
only the wind remains, sharp as memory,
slashing at my hands, my cheeks,
reminding me I'm still here.

But not for long.
One last inhale,
and it all turns to ash.

So do I.

Author's Note

I am writing in my native language, and here I am trying to make a translation into English.

And I don't give names to my poems if I don't have to.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

I think you succeeded quite well. I could not have told English was not your first language. The poem is a somber offering, the meaning of which I am not sure. It has the sound of depression.

[Aspere]

I think the poem has been accurately diagnosed. (To be honest, every personal interpretation will be such a successive diagnosis; the freedom of perception is what I value). Although its depressive tone, in its essence, seeks its roots in the philosophy of Emil Cioran, where depression is primarily a way of struggling with existence and consciously perceiving reality, feeling it in its true form. It is a personal meditation on human existence. At least that was my intention which, however, remains meaningless for the interpretation. :)