A tunnel of graphite smoke encapsulates its subject,
each evening,
steadily sucking the subject dry
the subject’s color scatters, not from fear, not in an attempt to escape
it scatters from exhaustion, pure overwhelming fatigue
The happening occurs unplanned,
without warning, suffocating, squeezing the subject’s spirit to its once red core
Its graphite fingers tighten with every breath
Until
the subject lies
flat on a level plane
Oozing smoke from every pore
in a torpid heap, no one can embrace.
