A Short Poem Dedicated To The Personal Hell We Can All Descend To Poem by Julian Takali

On the shoulders of I lay a smoke cloud of dust
Weighing me down not in spite but because it must
In times of liberty or of work; billows brood incessant
No matter the time of day; sky of morning fire or night-lit crescent

And this fume basks its power above my walk
Whispers a tune of dower; the most cruel of talks
It hurries me home, away from joy and out of sight
To then suffocate my mind throughout the night