Smoke

Oh the unbearable weight of being!
Come, madness,
That cool, calm collectedness I cultivated—
Are we not like so much smoke,
Twisted and curling
And beautiful
But ever transitory, ever fading?
It’s true, I have been beautiful,
But it is a frail and fleeting thing.
I find myself sometimes observing that
That which we hold dearest and strongest and most culpable
Is nothing—
Is nothing more than shadow and smoke,
And I,

I feel at peace with the cruel and contemplative lightness
Of the world.

                                                -Kaitlyn Medina                       [3/2/11]

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