THREE INCH RHAPSODY

He breathes like them, in and out

Save they see the air he breathes,

A stream of fumes, enter and exit

A practitioner of pranayama, ill at ease.

His lips clench the stick, habitual as they are

A stroke from the carbon head and the show begins.

He pulls and pulls the glow closer

Possibly ignorant of the hell he draws.

An inch or two closer to the Reaper won't scare him

For he forgets how many inches he drew.

The cycle resumes, a butt after another

Leading the 'cool dude' closer to his euphoria,

While his nimble lungs choke and wither

And his eyes weep from the relentless fumes

But yet he draws another and another and yet another

Saying, "You know not how it feels"

Sure, for the ones who know aren't around

Long enough to boast of how it feels.

The ashes gray warn him of his aging habit

But his eyes just see the glory of the flame that burns.

Till a day comes when he breathes no more

He is now a part of the air he breathed.

I see him in every street, every bar

He practices in open fields and closed domiciles

Under raining roofs and on window sills

Each breath he draws, a part of himself he kills.