Sunday, January 3, 2016

the cigarette

it dangles from her fingertips
a prisoner hanging on
waiting for salvation

her thoughts wander
survivors in a desolate land
ignoring the glowing ember
living its last breaths near her hand

a puff of callous breeze
making ash out of the cigarette
tendrils of smoke swirl
escaping to a certain death

she lifts the cigarette to her lips
lips that breathe in the smoke
smoke that reaches her lungs
lungs that exhale
exhale and inhale
while the universe holds its collective breath
and she says hello
hello, again.

There might be technical issues with this poem, because I do not smoke. I am gonna show my Poetic License if you stop me and ask me about any factual errors in this one. But that said, there is something extremely sexy and charming about a girl who smokes. And, uh, cigarettes are pretty cool too, till you get cancer and die.

No comments:

Post a Comment