Goes inside the mind of a smoker.
Poised elegantly in my hand, with a glowing amber burn
The powerful, alluring, white-cylinder stick does burn.
My eyes follow the stream of smoke spiraling
And I inhale the deep satisfaction from this burn.
Shameful glares dare me to deny its hazardous toxics
Bolder critics complain of the odor emitted from the burn.
In a small huddle outside we bare the harsh winter winds
Enjoying the camaraderie of exile- we’re united by this burn.
Self-proclaimed devout smoker, I am. By choice! Not addiction!
Yet I crumble apart if an empty pack denies me my burn.
Quickly forgotten and often halfheartedly consumed,
It’s all too easy to under appreciate the individual burn.
Collectively considered, I incorporate it into my rituals
As each new day begins with a morning burn.
My companion in solitude, in troubling times and the highest;
But its bad company I do keep when I choose to burn.
A nagging voice’s becomes stronger with each passing day
But then I flick the switch and all is forgotten. I continue to burn.