products of pleasure

Stacked carelessly, towering,
they rest inside shallow glass,
coral against white,

varying lengths,
reveal the need of some particular moment,
or lack thereof,

like souvenirs
from previous ventures.
Filthy, black, bent

tips: a bitter ending,
this tiny death,
as a flame was forced into submission.

Like finality, they were
abandoned, forgotten
each lying stationary against the others,

the blend of the multitude
creating unity
in the midst of uselessness,

as though they were corpses
after war,
thoughtlessly thrown into a crystal grave.

What is disgusting,
and untouchable becomes glorified
by an intricate display of craftsmanship,

as though sparkling glass
could hide the imperfection
made apparent by

the gray soot adorning
the many.
And could it be that

these tiny obscenities
exist as a result
of inklings of pleasure

that some of us need,
an irrational, disposable
craving? That maybe

we leave evidence of our
gluttony, of self
obsession in these

crystal burial grounds.
Though by itself, the image
seems arbitrary,

and all too common,
a lipstick stain on one end is a reminder
that someone,

somewhere,
needed that satisfying shock
inside blackening lungs;

the simple rush. And upon that flame's death,
pleasure was again laid to rest,
in a cemetery of her desire.