Fine Cut Midnight

The midnight strikes, the room grows still, A thin blue smoke begins to rise. A quiet glass I slowly fill, As music plays and daylight dies.

A Dunhill burns, a fine-cut spark, To match the lines I try to write. I sit alone within the dark, And bleed my thoughts into the night.

The smoke recalls those Sendowo nights, When no one had to be alone, Now each one walks toward different lights, Into a world that’s all their own.

Regret steps in, a quiet guest, For words unsaid and choices made, While tomorrow’s shadow stirs my chest, With doubts that never seem to fade.

But for an hour, the world is cut, From all the weight I have to bear. The door to yesterday is shut, As ash falls through the midnight air.