Faith into Smoke

Wandering through the smoke, 
I picked up a copy of Nietzsche .
I don't know why I did it. 

Perhaps I thought I would look cool. 
The little book dangling carelessly from my hand; 
I would saunter on, omnipotent. 

I wanted to read:
"God is dead,” 
to quote it with conviction. 

Walking through the itchy grim,
crowned with bed head and delirium,   
I needed faith.  

After some Nietzsche, 
smirking into the haze, 
I would be a pious unbeliever. 

That night I felt sick. 
Maybe it was the Nietzsche, 
but it was probably just the smoke.