The Soliloquy Inside
 Holding a brush in his hand, he lights up his cigarette; he reaches
to the window, to whom it belongs, he doesn’t know.
He then returns, reaches out for his shadow.
He imagines; dancing words on the wall have heard the sound of
his soul. Same words as soliloquies falling down everyday and he
paints them on the wall.
With the same brush and painty fingers and the ashes, once a
cigarette, he keeps imagining what we are going through everyday.
June 2022