my fingers are pungent with the leafy aroma of tobacco
and the corroded metal of nickel wound six strings
my lips are dry with the ended sweetness of a browned cigar
and the dried perspiration from hours of flame
my abode is a catacomb; grounds of arabica scattered carefree
light is dim, earth is nearby. i taste it so sweetly and serenely.
perhaps only at this hour, when all but a few birds are resting completely.
my eyes at rest, my fingers at rest, my body at rest, my soul at rest.
my god is my rest, always. oh how in love with him i am.
This has been a reoccurring sentiment for some time.
