Burn

Goes inside the mind of a smoker.

Burn

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.