I am a tiny flickering light
The burnt end of a short wick
That belongs to a demented
Obtuse candle

Burning and burning
‘Til it is no more. ‘Til I am no more?

It is the smoke that gives birth
To possibility.

The final gasp

This is why we do not know
The future,
Because it comes to us cloaked
In a haze.

And it is up to us to choose
Whether this is a deadly smog
Or a fog
Before a brighter day.