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Life in the Ashtray

I am a surprisingly resilient remnant
of a post-lovemaking cigarette

A settled offshoot
of a thunderbolt twist
into a burnished clay valley
(which was set into form
by the same strange fire
that's igniting my delicate, intricate form
As I speak)

It is
A holding tray
for others such as myself
(It is Art, as well)

We are
All gray
All glowing red
All surrounded by our own writhing fumes
And our bretheren's fumes
Fogged and entertained
By our own pyrotechnics

My mind seems constantly
on the rugged precipice
of crumbling
As it shoots off fluttering sparks
But my gray is leaner for it
And my red purer
And my red purer

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