Puff After Puff

I don’t think this poem really needs any explanation (psst it’s about smoking). Just to put it out there I don’t smoke, but this poem doesn’t reflect my views on it at all (if you smoke, it’s none of my business so..). Here it is:


Ash like poison flies

And severed trees crumble under life’s fingertips.

Inhale the hate

And watch it spread.

Watch it multiply through scenes of red and orange

With every exhale and every draw of the finger to the flame.

Smoke signs the contract of the skin but we never read the fine print:

‘No amount of paper and plastic can patch the scars’.

No amount of metal can fake the cure.

Four chambers mangled and broken,

Two twin soldiers beaten and bruised,

Their family tree abused.

Roots no longer stable

Red and white children stop and sob,

Can no longer propagate

But the ash continues to fly and impregnates the sky with its plague.

Red rooms darken and churn up poison into a thick,

Purple clump that prevents speech.

Words out of reach

And the mind begins to wonder.

Faces fall.


Inhale again.

Inhale again.

The children no longer cry.

Roots wither.

The flame goes out.



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