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Black Cigarettes and White Wine

The old man stopped by the fire escape,
To weave his colored yarn.
With tired eyes and lines that disguise,
He stared up towards the sky.

The stars shine so bright on nights like these,
When the roar of the highway comes through like rain,
Calming and cold and completely awake,
But different all the same.

He lit up his cigarette and made his way home,
To an empty room on the south side of town.
There’s a hole in the wall that lets in the cold,
The landlord’s says he’ll fix it.
But sometimes he acts like he just doesn’t know.

In the haze of the smoke and the thoughts of despair,
He watches the dust as it flows through the air,
Each one small and round and unique,
Like snowflakes blowing through the street.
Undesired and ugly but welcomed like a prayer.

The whiskey burns but it helps to numb.
From the hallway to the doorstep,
A hazy but welcomed song.
He steps into the cold and starts to sing,
With a voice torn from years of wandering.

He looks to the sky and wonders why.
Why is it so g******n black tonight.