There’s an apartheid,
to our senses—
It leaves an underscore
as to why we can’t breathe
in the same room.
My breath is nicotine, tobacco,
and ardor.
We act as if the jester
was not the most loving of all.
Is there any difference;
as to why
I choose to obstruct my lungs.
Do the alveoli dance your tune,
in the ballroom you’ve filled,
with what I believe to be
a witch’s cauldron soup of,
blood, gratuity, and
our first exchange?
An echo in your memories—
There is a golden hour to ask,
yet there is only a bronze one
for your answers.
My search for asylum,
left me at a rendezvous
in which I encountered,
Periodical Insanity.