Smoke

i see the room, its four walls,
its visions and its people,
with smoke before my eyes
when veiled he enters,
but i know it is not he that i seek.
the smoke
stacks itself upon itself
in its many varied colors
until it reaches the ceiling
and escapes into the night,
into the streets
where other people are
who do not see it,
or hear or feel it,
who will not seek to destroy it,
for it has become part of them,
part of all that they know.
i return to seeing the room,
smoke illumining the closed souls
of those about me.
i do not see faces
but temperaments half-covered
by smog.
i do not hear voices
but songs of dischord,
of stilled agony and pain,
almost silenced by the air.
i see not people
but shadows, half-formed
creatures of life.
these shadows,
they vanish before my eyes,
(to reappear i know,)
but the smoke it never leaves.
it always stays
in hopes to conceal
the whispery air of life.
completely.
i leave the room, its four walls,
its visions and its people,
when veiled he leaves too,
but i know it is not he that i seek.
he will return to the room,
its visions, its people,
having only desired a break
still veiled and
untouched by the wind.

                March 21, 1970