It is not

It is not about the written poems, the unsung songs, the radiant blasphemy or the banal words;

when we choke on an uncivilized argument we feel the tiger roaring and slashing out,

slashing through layers, slayers, like a hitman with a bills right or a priest who can't find the inner demons he lost once but whom are waiting for im just across the glass.

It is not about the casual sex with the redhead woman you met while waiting for the hand of faith to tap you on the shoulder, it is not destiny, not a purpose,

it's just a random causality mixed and spiked with good luck.

It is not about the were's or was', we live in here and before is just a smoked-up cigar,

we see the ashes, we smell the ashes, we get dirty with them, but that is all that is: ashes

...and the butt of the old cuban is dim, smelly and almost dead.

It is that, and nothing else.