Down To My Last Pack

I took a commemorative drive
Back to a town that glorified the wise
It was 500 miles and three packs of cigarettes
The crisp, burning sound embedded in my head

Endlessly deep trenches
That birthed my inflictions
Created character, said my intentions
To rise above, and destroy pretenses

I went passed those rusty, horrid gates
That allegedly guarded us and kept us safe
Then, I entered the palace, the core of my pain
Where the man stood, stoically and still bound in his chains

He was a deathly entity without any shame
But his smile was deceiving, as if he had changed
“This time” he said, “We won’t die” he tried to explain
But his eyes lied, and his tone was vain

The crisp, burning sound echoed as I left
The man, helpless and distressed
Became nothing more than a substance that
I won’t digest