Smoke Poem by The Theorist

Every Morning

Turning my head once again in the pillows
Aware of shallow breaths
The slow movement of muscles at rest warming under my chin
A twitch, a barely detectable flutter
The twist and sudden split of bonded lips
A painted haze before me
Silence flows like running water over my ears
Fingers reach then freeze
And then it happens

The assault
An invasive guest that captures my sleepily emerging face
Subtle at first
Insidious
Like a not so familiar memory
Instantly a lance that rushes the brain
Then I am awake, aware sampling the air
Short quick inhales and quickly it registers
Burning embers, caustic smoke

Every morning
Just before the alarm clock summons
Before the radio releases the ever persistent voices of frantic news rooms
It is there
Filling my senses
Short circuiting my mind
Without a single spark
Absent of flame and heat
Intensely palpable for an instant
Suddenly faded as wakefulness steps in
And the voices of endless information flood my head.