Cigarette

Is this smoke? This isn't smoke!

This is a solace for exhaustion, a refuge under pressure, the quiet early morning when night falls, the only spark that lights up in the dead of night, the past that can be recalled, the orchid blooming in nicotine.

This is the last bit of dignity for adults, turning a thousand words into ashes and forging the youthful disguise of not knowing the taste of sorrow into armor in the process of swallowing and spitting. This is a silent outpouring of looking back on the past desolate moments, a wandering companion alone in a foreign land as a stranger. The traces burned by time flow through my fingers. The wind scatters the smoke in the air and also dispels my stubborn and passionate spirit.

This is the buoy where the torrent of time drifts, the reflection of millions of you and me evaporating, and the poem written in the ashes of life