in smokey rooms they walked
those dark ones
and the ones without much light
now they lie all around me
orphaned after a night
thrown out into the sight

few tell a story, like of the hazy fog
and the magic frog
of when they came out on cue
at the heavy snowy dew
walking in their black threads
out from their layered beds

some smell like others
but most like me
even when they lay here on my floor
near the table, next to my door
all so many
i think i have too many

thoughts and clothes