Each wisp of life that rises with the day,
ethereal and metaphoric smoke
that haunts the morning air, the pall of gray-
not-black, that ghostly spirit we invoke
with every pulse and every breath we take,
each day of days we clarify at dawn
with dreams we chase in sleep and then forsake
to wisps of smokey life, still linger on.
That wisp of insight smoldering in ash
which sacrifices life, a brief decay,
exhales a breath of beauty, seeks to pass
its essence through the dawn into the day
while day inhales the beauty of the night
and wisps of beauty dissipate in light.

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