Cells Go Up In Smoke Poem by Michael Witkowski

itha, you do not
recognize the snow that's fallen
that dust has turned to grey
that the tide has come
and ebb withdrawn

when smoke changes all to dust
and smithereens gleam in the fair fire
then you have change- cut off the wire
that ties you to your blinding wardrobe
as in this wardrobe you always find

the habit- your cherished, beloved
that equally pains you too as it pains
others- a rough linen habit of a sinner
coarse to your skin -it makes you itch?
don't you see the rash of your skin?

be a sinner not- reward your sinned
against skin and sinned against air
and earth and flesh- these tired
questions about caves in your mind
and cells that are not born again

they only trigger spite -
turn mellow minds
against you