Smoke rings, smoke rings
Gather in the dark
Smoke rings, smoke rings
Never hit your mark

Cinders, cinders
It's grey on white
Cinders, cinders
Sparkling in the night

Glassful, glassful
Why are you so clear?
Glassful, glassful
Takes away the sear

Bright star, bright star
Used to give me hope
Bright star, bright star
Used to help me cope

Night song, night song
Sang you to the moon
Night song, night song
No more, it's too soon

Silence, silence
I've become a tool
Silence, silence
How I feel a fool

Dawn light, dawn light
My eyes see your hue
Dawn light, Dawn light
I close my eyes for you

Sunray, sunray
Warm up my heart
Sunray, sunray
Before I fall apart

"Why are your poems always so dreary?..." she asked as she peered over his shoulder to read what he'd written in an old leather bound notebook. He just chuckled and turned his dark rimmed eyes up towards her with a crooked smile, "why, mon chérie," he replied in his not quite so thick cajun accent, "why do they have to be anything else? Are not poems supposed to be of the mind and heart? Even the very soul?"
"So you're saying that you are a dreary person?..." she asked with a raised brow.
He gave a soft snort, "non, I'm saying that I'm a wistful dreamer who has a bad drinking and smoking problem and decided to write about it in a dramatic fashion."
"I thought you were a gambler?"
"Non, I'm an entertainer."
"What happened to your bartender job?..."
"I still have it."
"I thought you said you were "an entertainer"?" she asked, brows knit together in confusion.
He grinned once more with a slight chuckle, "I am. Do I not entertain the drunkards?"
She just rolled her eyes, muttering how he stole their money while they were inhibited more like, as he continued to grin at the setting sun, closing his notebook with a small sigh. He took another swig before he blew a few smoke rings, sending them upwards, and watched as they drifted off in the evening air to fade and disappear into the darkening sky.