No
More
Nothing.

Me: All
This:

.

Arms to the ground.
I have fought my last
Battle.

Boots off, socks too.
I will search; explore
No more.

Head down, to rest upon
My woman's chest.
Not one night

On solitary pillow
Ever again.
The end of my life

As I have known it.
I'll never be less than
Two. Sad pen to

The ground. This might
Be the last poem I'll ever
Need to write.

Bandaged wounds that
Bled ink healing. All my
Smiles are unwriteable, now.

It is a declaration of cowardice.
I put my pen down and
Step away slowly
[Defusing the letter bomb].
They don't always turn the
Other sheet, you know.

Sometimes the poem
Writes back.

So I sit back in my freshly painted
Living room.

Neon yellow just didn't do it any  
More. That colour blind landlord

Might actually have cost me a
**** fine relationship.

I'm painting over few, ugly fights,
Intense passion, selfless love alike.

White. It's a Gandalf-like rebirth,
This coming back to myself.

I sit smiling in my freshly painted
Living room. Just some man

Waiting to be asked why he's
Grinning like that.

I've painted every wall of my home
The colour of canvas.

It's been a year of heroes.
I've met so many of them
Since January.  

Ed Kowalczyk, Eric Church...
And Neil Gaiman today.
They were

All the same comforting
Base of blood and bones as
The rest of us.

I stand in the centre of the
construction site. hearing
drilling,
jackhammering,
shouting,
and filling the gaps between
all these sounds:

the consistent thump of a
boom blaster
spitting and jumping as if
asking everything to
dance, rave with it.

I say a prayer to Ronnie
James Dio, and contemplate
the thin, thin line between
dubstep, and sitting -mouth
wide open- under an angry, insane
dentist.

Edited.

My girlfriend has had trouble sleeping
For as long as she can remember.

None of us willing to worship the
Consumer's deity that Valentine's day

Has become, we dressed for February
And lit a bonfire behind the barn.  

She prepared gourmet hotdogs,
I provided beer, homemade wine

And carried firewood. She turned to
Me, eyes narrowing as the wind

Turned, and smoke caressed her
Fire-warm face.

This is the best Valentine's ever.*
Her face all smile.

All smile and embers.
Now, back in the house,

Her breathing and barely audible
Snores from the bedroom are pure

Music. Sometimes fresh air and
Fire is all

It takes to find silence
Enough

To
Rest.

I'm coaching myself
To cry instead of
Berserking in anger.

It saves the walls;
Our things;
My knuckles;

It makes you
Feel
Bigger.

It gives room for you
To hold something
You need

To
Want to
Hold.

Does this hurt?*
Yes.

It hurts like seeing your
Childhood home for the last time.

Nothing stings like your skin catching
Sparks from a bridge burning,

Like resting scalpel on chest and
Sliding to access the heartful of

Thorns, then changing to tools of
Extraction.

What am I doing here, would be
The last words they'd watch me

Think. Now I remain with the
Question, eyes turned to where I'd

Like to see Heaven holding divine
Wisdom and offering it,

Getting nothing but rain in my eyes
And silence.

All homes are temporary.
The smell of lilac floating down

The street will always take me back
To when that bridge connected one heart

Set on forever to one set on for now.
I run the tips of my fingers across

The scar of scalpel; a map from Death to
Life; lying flatline;

Temporary, temporary rest.
I was never meant to stay, I whisper

Into what I know is coming.
Will this hurt?

Yes.
*Good.

Morning breath of Winter upon the naked
Back of Autumn, as they lie side by
Side on the bed of ploughed fields
I admire.

Mist kissed and coloured by turned soil
The age of Earth herself.
I kick frozen, brown leaves from my boots
And look towards

The river.
It'll freeze up at the tips of its longest fingers
Soon, inviting children with ice skates and
Red cheeks to dance and laugh.

Winter turns his mouth towards his
Dying lover's face, and kisses her farewell.
Until next year, my auburn love.
Sleep until Summer's watch is over.

Up here, the seasons are so stark they form
Four shades of adventure.
A land so proudly unholy anyone can
Walk on water.

She has those Scandinavian
blue eyes framed by a universe

of raven black hair.
she has that back-straight dancer's

walk that says
I'm heads taller than everyone.

she has that figure that makes men
nudge each other when walking

behind her, then stop when she
turns. just stop. and look.

she has that feeling of a woman who
knows she's the safest girl in

the world. *my man can stop the
planet's turning. can keep the sun

from rising. for
me.

Dear mr. Cole.
I allow myself
"Joe", with the deepest respect
For a man I barely know.
But I know...

You contain
Multitudes, no less than
Whitman. Supporting posting
Writers with the warmth
Of an all-loving Allfather; raining
And shining on seedlings sown
By poets of varying confidences.

Larger than any poet
Ever read
Is he who encourages writing.

Joe, yours is the hand that swats
The one that holds back the
Pen of the uncertain poet.

Your poetry reflects
Your garden, God's Creation,
The beauty within wild things
Growing...

And all that glory and grace
Of which you write,
My friend, our Joe.
Is all a mirror
Reflecting
Its beholder.

At the sun setting
Emptily
I realize I've been staring
Directly at it
For hours without
Dropping
A tear

If I ****** myself
Deep enough
Into your hardness-
Recieving softness, will it  
Convince me

That it's really
*You?

His pants were nearly down on his
Knees. His ballcap was more than
Askew. She  
Was way beyond eighty, as swift
As a snail.
The traffic more "train" than a
Queue.

His friends were all laughing, and
Yes, so was he. Suppose it was meant
As a joke.
But so gently he took her by arm and
Across; our gratitude's all he
Provoked.

She thanked him with eyes that were
Wet with relief. And left us bystanders
In plain disbelief.
He bowed like a gentleman, bid her
Adieu...
Doing as real people do.
-
I knew I had hurt her by ways of a
Child; thoughtless and  
Unconsciously.
I asked her the next day to sit for a
While. And accept my apology.

She said with her hand on my cheek
Like a mom: "No need for it boy, I
Know you.
It happens to everyone under the
Sun... You acted like
All people do."
-
I've nothing but gratitude every day
For people acting in every way
Thinkable, all we're expected to
Is to do just as all people do.

Sometimes we are kind, but more
Often than not
We're selfish and cruel and
Demanding a lot.
But it's worth it, I think, for those
Angel-like few
Who do things as real people do.

Outside night time winds
In birch monuments
And inside fire in
Its place

To their sounds
I doze and
Drift
Away

And has a belly so full of my
Vegetable stew with Swedish
Sausage she can barely keep
Her beautiful eyes open.
Heavy with a strange weekend
Behind her, and the road.
I feel bad for mostly eating and
Sleeping. More beer than water
(Showers included).
Mine was a lighter load
This time, princess.
I'd take yours in a heartbeat,
I'm tempted to say. But I stop
Myself at your
Recent loss.

Now finish your cider. Pat
Wolfie good night.
I'll carry you to bed
Where all I expect
Is that you
Sleep.

We'll both be here
In the morning.

Raindrops on a train window.
So early it's late.
Eyes narrow with deep sleep
Unhad, mouth still bitter
From medicine breakfast.

Carousel of Everyday.
Not staying home is like
Being released into prison.
Dizzy fatigue, city chaos.
Some of us belong in the

Woods; look the
Most familiar from afar in
The mist.
I'll find bonfire comfort
With my temple against her

Collarbone.
Wilderness skies in her eyes.
Sometimes her skin is such
An opposite to cold concrete,
I cry in comfort.

Eyes narrow with warm
Familiarity. My
Tears on her tattoos like
Raindrops on a train
Window.

I know that sound.
It's the same all over the world.
Vast spaces filling up with
Noise, smoke and flashes.  

Closer. Closer until close.
Then there.

I know your face like
The palm of my hand held out
From under the roof of your
Porch.

Somebody's gotta say it.
It's raining.
Poets stating the obvious to
Each other, like it's all one poem
Or another,

As poets do.

Nothing like the darkness
Swallowing blue sky. Nothing
Like lightning swallowing that  
Darkness in high voltage gulps
Of fierce celestial appetite.

I sip at your soul as our hands meet;
Mouths on the tips of our
Fingers nibbling kisses.

If your heart was a crime scene,
They wouldn't find a single print
Of mine after dusting.

But I was there.

The rain washes nothing away
That hasn't promised to return.
And I do strike twice; even
Knowing the third one

Would put me away for good.

I'd be behind bars and bolts.
Your face flashing
Before my eyes.
In love like an electric storm.
Guilty as
Charged.

Clouds as black as a dead
Display embrace the ash grey
Eternity of overhead
Evening heaven-space.

Thunders like legions of Harley-
Davidsons roaring through the
Nearby woods, making
Windows tremble like

Nervous alcoholics under the
Weight of their own empty
Bottles of loved ones' patience
And own dead pride.

The gods are angry tonight.
But so am I.
I open my mouth to the deluge.
I open my soul to the storm.

I get drunk on tsunamis. I fill
Up on snacks of tectonic plate
Movements; pass earthquakes,
Waving vulcano clouds away

From my face, then inhale.
My breath is atmosphere.
My pulse is symphony.
Earth is the rest of me.

I'm as shy as a god.
As humble as the devil.
Marillion tunes; seaside
Stones shaped by brainwaves

Form an absence of need.
All I want is change.
These are my thoughts.
Now show me my penny.

All my clothes are oil stained.
Paint soiled, diesel fumed.

Eager to get a job done
I forget to care what I'm
Wearing.

At least she allows herself
Quality make-up,
I think; rubbing absent-mindedly

At mascara stains on my
Shoulder.

Something so
Interesting; wonderful; so ravenly
"Poe" in "poetically correct" about a
Poem of poets (what
Else would be the plural form?)
Gathering over thoughts, sensations,
Pictures, experiments,
Classics; poems and other
Poetry.

Poets!
You are the throat, tongue and vocal
Chords of the ******* universe!

Poets!
You are the for-ever-victorious
Gladiators of Human Expression!

Poets!
If either one of you ceases to write
I will hunt you down
And          insert violence

I will break your every finger and
Form
Quills of marrow and bone.

I'll watch as you write with
Those.

Alone I keep
All the lights
Off.
Ain't no
Sunshine
When
She's
Gone.

We met as two broken vases
Holding the brittle remains of
Roses never received.
Bruised and scarred, one from
Thinking love is pain, one
From finally seeing that it
Isn't.

Colliding drunk drivers on an
Empty Lover's Lane, both
Alternating between the roles of
Victim and rescue worker,
Mouth-to-mouth and chest
Compressions;
Caresses.

Blue eyes blue lights,
The taste of the blood of the other
As comforting a comfort as any to
Any parched vampire.
We leave the scene as we have
Many: Covered in type O negative  
And hope.

A less thankful of things to track down
In dark woodlands, one's flashlight.

Body hurts from last night's wine and
This morning's lifting.
Hands shake, sounds of construction
Like an insane symphony of
Unsilence.

My limbs are the fingers of a clenched
Fist around the hope that
The hours may grow wings.
The city, a snail outside
The construction site fence.

We're both prisoners under a
Sky that's waiting to downpour,
Giving each other nervous looks
Through iron bars, smiling
Unwillingly with tears in our eyes,

To immitate consolement.
Today, a line has been drawn between
The world and its enemy,
Of which I'm on the wrong side.
This is how I die;

A drowned flower.
A bleeding scar. An
Exposed nerve in the rain.
At least I have the wine.
Without it, I'd never get this thirsty.

Shadows from a sunlit tree
Dance on my wall. Dance; that
Winter is over.

Worlds
Between the coldest
January day and this one  

Where the sun kisses your skin
So hard it cries.
I don't miss the snow. Can do

Without the unyielding dark
And scraping of ice from the
Windshields at 4.30am.

There's magic in this country.
In winter it whispers of itself
In the creaking of dry frost

Beneath your boots under
Northern Light veils of
Thin colour enveloping skies

White with stars like pixels.
Now, it's the warm morning sun
Gently parting the fog; leaving

Little glimmers of itself in the
Drops of dew that remain.
Dew, and the little deer drinking.

Her cheating on me is not what I fear.
Good men are mistreated everywhere.
It's the loathing I'd feel if it came to a fact
That she lusted and loved behind my back

That I fear -as should she; it's beyond my control-
It would tear us to pieces and swallow us whole.
To see what you treasured as holy and strong
Hang slain from a rope one last lie long.

The concept of cheating; I spit in its face.
It sickens me how it would see her erazed.
Goddess to garbage in one-two-three...
I'm praying that she remains faithful to me.

I love things you dislike about
yourself.
you are more beautiful to me
now than ever.

I watch your details.
discover something new about
your laugh daily.

angles, lighting, a line revealed,
a curve.

collecting every little imperfection,
seeing their whole as

perfection.

your voice soothes me.
your touch rebuilds my
confidence.

any movement you make now,
is dance.

Dark were your
yesteryears, so
some corners of your warm
heart stay tainted still

I want to
rip the
black from your inner-
most

no matter how you

might bleed, curl it up
and throw it into the

abyss where the remains
of other pain-dragons slain

remain.

Clouds like ice on water
Shield holding heat

Between the ground and
Itself

Car is here for the
Container

I am the cold mouthful of
Coffee I throw on a smoking

Sigarette **** on the
Concrete, remembering

Back home
Back then

It was you who decided when
The break was over

So it never was a
Break

It was a laidback lifestyle
Always between two

Achievements
Until remaining

Stationary got too much
For your young, impatient side

(That always dragged us down
Into infantility)

I loved your all, but that part
Being gone with the rest of

You, is the silence after a
Container-car having sqreeched

Tons of metal along tarmac,
Then hoisting,

Then driving off, making room
For another quiet

Coffee
Break.

Setting clocks back that
one hour
I only see daylight through
the windows of the lunch
room.

night all day.

Oslo Skyline lets me
recall one of my earliest
memories;
from a baby seat in the
back of my uncle's
Citroën, hypnotized by
the yellow lights of a
Shell station we were parked
outside.

something so comforting
about the brightness of
a whole, little day
within the darkness of way-
beyond-bedtime.

warmth within winter.
adults in conversation.
I hope the bus driver keeps
the overhead halogens off in
here.

there's nothing unfriendly
about this lack of
daylight.

Mountain, lean on me.
Let me comfort you,
Cry your creeks onto
My shoulder.

Oak tree; weeping willow
At heart. Here,
Find shelter from the rain
Beneath me.

Girl, grow strong enough
To carry the weight of
Your beauty.
Concrete cross; boulder burden

Of features and curves beheld
In craving by wide-eyed men.
A curse at times, to have
Your golden soul shine through

To the outside of your being.
Until then, lean on me.
Let me comfort you.
Cry your every drop of fatigue

Onto my shoulder.
Find shelter beneath me.
I can hide the sun from your eyes.
See: Love is sizeless.

We skipped the movie.
It rained hard and
We didn't want to
Change out of our

Slouching clothes
(She'd bought me a pair of

PJ pants, as comfortable
As pure
Warm
******).
So,
Full of sushi and
Wine

We reclined in a pile of two
On the sofa.
Flashes of lightning on a

Horizon growing
Darker with
Each roar of its
Brother
Thunder.

Even the gods are
Celebrating us,
She whispered, raising
Glass towards the
Open balcony
Door; then me.

Happy one-month-
Anniversary,
Baby.

A poet, still baffled by the
Straight forward, no-poetic-bull-
****-card she'd written me,

I raised mine back, caught a
Glimpse of a bolt
Splitting the
Sky down the
Middle like a

Sudden
Snapshot of
Some
Celestial open-heart-
Surgery,

Glanced at her
Beautiful hand in my
Not-so-beautiful one, and

Replied, exhausted with
Young infatuation and
Equally

Exhilarated:
I'm so ******* in
Love with you, girl. I
Give up.

I am.
I do.

You couldn't swing a dead cat
Between me
And the Core of All Existence.

I hide myself from External Affairs
Behind homeground
Impenetration.

All I care to explore is my own
Present outermost psychocosmos.
I could open my mouth and
Expell whole systems; solar and
Other.
In constant consumption with
Every sense employed; I know not
When to stop.

I breathe pure air on spiritual diet,
Slimming down to a complete
Absence of Self. Leaving an
Impression like a Lover of Life on
Something dead; I feel nothing
But alive.

I close my eyes and bask in the
Loaded sensation
Of every gun in the room

Being pointed at my person.

They live by me.

The crimson tips of
Sundown's deep orange
Fingers
Trace each detail of the
Landscape; slowly yielding
To the wall of steel gray
Promise of storm
Swallowing blue.

Let us bring this bottle
And a chair out onto the
Entrance stairs; under shelter.
Sit on my lap as
It all hits.

Everything is drum.
A roofless room
Water walled
Deluge draped
Pink noise of drops;
Multitudes of molecules.

I love you, my woman.  
I love you slightly more
When it rains.

She lights another one, she'd rather
Smoke than run.
It used to be for fun,  
Now it's become more a
Reaction than behaviour.
We all turn to our saviour.

He'll pour himself one more
Unlike before when he was
Not a drunk for sure.
He drinks himself onto the floor, a
Toast to friends he lost to
War, to wishing he was
Just as dead and gone as
They were.  
We all turn to our saviour.

She doesn't even try, with all the lies
She tells the guys.
They grow in size until it's
No surprise she lies herself to
Self-despise.
There's truth behind her eyes, but
Deep inside and in disguise.
Now it's too late
To tell the truth,
She's only sickened by its flavour.
We all turn to our saviour.

I try to use my voice and speak
Out loud, but sound so weak I
Close my mouth. I sneak a line in
Inbetween; as thin as paper.
Being heard instead of read means
I'll be quiet when I'm dead.

I pick the pen instead, again when
Stating something sort of major.
We all turn to our saviour.

The sound of her voice when
she finally calls.
the sound of the night as it
giggles and falls.

the sight for these eyes that are
bloodshot and sore;  
the sight of her eyes, saying
lonely no more, that

hold me with gazes across
any space, that trace this old face,
holding smiles in their place.
the holding she does with her arms

as I drift into slumber and sleep,
can both cradle and lift any man's
manly heart needing comfort and
rest. they keep any secret and

stand any test. I am drunk on her
skin, I am high on her smell. I am
demon in Heaven, she's angel in
Hell.

now fallen has night, and it fell on
its head. its lack of awareness  
envelopes our bed.
drifting off first, as so often I do.

it's the day's final words:
-I love you.
-I love *you.

Woman. Man's mystery.
Soft as feather falling through mist,
In need of something that isn't.
I keep forgetting
That I'm rarely the reason for
Whether you rain or shine.

I am the rock you hide under
While the deluge pounds.
I am the rock you rest upon when
Soaking up the sun.
I am the rock you recognize
As last milestone before home.

Deep inside the eye of your storm
You blame me as little
For anything
As you'd blame any other rock
For something.
I'm just there.
Whatever hits you
Hits me.

I understand.
A long line of yesterdays
Lead you here.
So you compare,

And call upon
Rainy summers and fierce
Winters to stain
Today with the pain

Of last love lost.
Last fallen friend.
Pulling the fabric of hope apart
To fit your heart.

Place it among the new born
Lights of stars long since
Dead, instead. Learn
To shine, not burn.

The rays of sunrise
Are eight minutes old.
Arise. Be bright.
Give the morning its light.
All that awaits to glitter
Is gold.

I know it's late, but I'm
At home alone with
A couple of six-
Packs and a guitar and the
Love of my life just gave
That Old *******
Cancer the finger, so I'm

Drinking and playing and
Singing until my liver,
Fingertips and throat are
Bleeding
Since the radiation and
Chemo don't have to
Make her bleed any

More, and
I've got something to celebrate
Unlike anything I thought I
Ever would in a life that
I mistakenly thought of
As rich until
This.

I look out of my window at
Stars and a moon that
Pretend not to
Give a **** in their
Neutral shining and stuff,
And I'm less poet than lover.
I've got all night

For this evening.
It's mine, and like
All else that is: Hers.
I know she's with friends.
I know she laughs.
I hope she misses me less
Than I do her,

And just celebrates her
Beautiful new
Lily-like blossoming into
Deathlessness.
It's as alien to her
As Life to a
Newborn.

She jumps up when my key turns,
Leaving her sofa;
Greeting me like a puppy would
Its owner after

Twenty one dog-days.
I drop my bag and guitar,
Swimming in the scent of
Woman straight

From shower. All is home with
This girl. No palace of gold, no
City in the clouds,
No exotic boat ride on

Green waters, no top of any
Mountain, no bar, casino or
Cabin in the world where I'd
Rather be than here.

After we've sat -nearly on top
Of each other- for a while, she
Asks what I'd like to do now.
Anything that includes my

Girlfriend, I reply, and she hugs
Me for the seventeenth time in
As many minutes.
Can't stop touching each other.  

Her hair is a unicorn's mane
Against my hands, skin like a baby's
Tummy, hands like those of a young
Mother's upon anything she

Loves; all with the honest affection  
Of one.
I am home, I sigh to myself, and
She looks at me as if thinking

He is home, leaving me so
Happy for us both that I just
Want to lean down over our relationship
And pat it lovingly behind its ear.

Dirtiest mouth this side of Hell.
Ocean horizon eyes, laughter like
Galloping horses thundering by;
Making everything else
Shake with blissful amusement.
Like me.
Man...

We talk for hours.
You place a feather on
My fresh stitches; blow gently
On the burns and smack a good-
Night

Kiss from half way across the
World so directly onto my
Forehead,
I turn over and sleep like a
Bear cub momside.

You are more than you'll ever
See yourself.
You shine with shades of
Beautiful not yet
Mapped by those who do.

Your words attracted me.
Our attraction helped healing me.

We stand in sunlight, under
The silver sails
Of our friendship; cutlass drawn,  
Spyglass raised towards the
Adventure.

I'll write with you until
We're both blind.
I'll laugh with you until
We suffocate,

I'll tell you a secret
Every time you want.

Until we share them all.

Then we'll make each other
New ones.

The last specks of snow on the
Fields disappeared with the parting
Of the clouds.

Now blue, the skies smile
Upon everything.
I spoke to a friend today.

The birds keep picking at the
Sunflower seeds I put out by
My window.

I spoke to a friend today.
Now my windows are eyes to my
Soul as I watch mud and dead

Grass kiss the sun back with nothing
But themselves. This spring, as every.
We are not beautiful yet.

But we love you for making us
That; green and alive. Spring is
Spring to everything.

Spring to everything, and not only  
The words of my friend's
Linger, but the feeling does too; that

When all is as beautiful as this,
I'm not the only one
Seeing it.

I witnessed the calf's first steps
On matchstick legs.
Mother's tongue towel;
A giant of love and pride.
There was poetry inside.

I've seen deaf lovers gesticulate a
Love story across a room full
Of walls of noise and chatter.
Like smugglers they would hide,
Sneaking poetry inside.

I've seen old mothers stand,
Back straight, denying war
Machinery access.
A protective circle of lives,
Around the
Poetry inside.

I've poked at something
Dead in a ditch
With a stick just to look at the
Maggots and bugs
Couldn't help it though I tried;
There was poetry inside.

I traced her face with mine,
I gazed into
Her spacious eyes as we'd
Unite and move together
And that warmth could not have lied;
There was poetry inside.

Each thing a gallery, that's how I see
The world -as if I read it-
Which I swear by and abide:
It is glaced with art and colour;
It has poetry inside.

For Petal Pie and Louise.*

My alarm is a piece of music that
Reminds me of when I awoke
With my mouth on a woman's

Naked shoulder, last.
I've found the right song to differ
Night from day.

I'll start there and
Run with anything, smiling.  
I've been serious enough.

So begins my day. There is no
Garment between my bed and
My bathroom. If the night

Was warm, I'll glimmer like a
Twillit vampire (a thousand diamonds...)
If it was not, I move through the room

Like your regular, hairy
Neanderthal.
I walk showerwards as I walked

Into this world. Without
All. The mirror says: "You could
Have lifted more," while also

Saying: "...many have lifted
Less..." I care less for that  
Than warm water bringing every

Pore of my body from
"I am an unrideable horse," to
"This is my machine. This is my

Only vessel. I will row this ship
Like I row towards the only star
I care to maneuver to;

Shining as such: It is a woman's
World. It wants you; like flowers  
Want water."

Thank you. I know that guy in the
Mirror. He's been gone for
A while.

Let's stop putting the label Bad
On our delicate little planet.
Yes, she has ugly skin on parts of

Her continents. Some sour rain,
Some rash from her seven billion fleas.
But she deserves more.

Yes, so perhaps she's only one blue
Eye on the face of the solar system.
A shivering cyclops

Afraid to meet the gazes of duality,
Yet standing tall against
The Jupiters and Red Giants

Of the immediate Universe.
But there, in the black eclipse-dot
Of her iris,

A smoker quits
For the sake of his children,
And I see what it costs.

So I recline, eyes closed,  
In the warmth of a cigarette ****
Crushed under a heel

In its lastness; a little, empty
Crucifix -now a cross-
That reminds me that the sacrifice  

That any non-smoker (not an ex-
Smoker) would never understand,
Comes from the same place as

Those things that make us stop and
Wonder at the selflessness that
Makes Earth

Not a victim orb of crap, but a spaceship
Where angels hike on their time off
Just to experience

The factors of Humanity
That make us stop putting **** in
ourselves, and start loving.