Cig-smoke

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I

n the end you don’t smoke the cigarette,

the cigarette smokes you.

You watch life evaporate into the wind

as your mouth becomes firewood,

dispelling smoke and hope in form of ash.

Why does death have so many faces?

Some warm and graceful, nesh like a love song.

Some clumsy and frigid, far from delicate.

In this hive of familiar faces

all waxed in same  surname,

the cancer stick stands a pole.

In the end you don’t smoke the cigarette,

the cigarette smokes you.