(The poem compares life with smoking a cigarettte and how I desire to have several lives to relish physical reality again and again.)
Smoke is what I’m made of,
my thoughts are not bubbles,
they are circles, entwined,
entangled, rising up to die,
making me drear, for they
are born between the silence
of my breaths, with one drag,
or two puffs, here and there,
burned are my believes,
smoldering there, in that
ash tray lying underneath,
I smoked one third of my
snout without a doubt,
with its butt as my dream
which I held tight, even
on knowing that soon
my cig will be doused,
the butt will be thrown out,
and you will trample it under
your feet, but now I shall
breath my smoke deep,
let it reach not to my lungs,
but to every vein in my heart,
I shall not stop sucking it now,
even if an apocalypse wreaks,
one smoke can not sate me,
I will burn one more, coz I’m a
chain smoker, addicted to smoke,
I desire that my pack will not
finish till eternity…
