<p><strong> Smoke Signals</strong><br>
<br><br>
Those nowhere days at the dog-end of a year,<br>
On which I have inhaled deeply even though,<br>
It sometimes made me cough.<br>
<br><br>

March lit the match and hope smouldered,<br>
In April's fancy ashtray waiting for,<br>
The long hot summer which never came.<br>
<br><br>

The pungent fumes of self doubt made me green,<br>
With choking paranoia until a window opened,<br>
Letting in a sharp draught of words,<br>
<br><br>

Which mingled with the madness, painting<br>
On the smokescreens a mirror of my insanity,<br>
Clearing the air.<br>
<br><br>

Now the wind howls and the lighter won't spark,<br>
And I wait in the wintry dark, nervously toying,<br>
With the pristine filter of the New Year.</p>