My hand stretches out <br /> <br />Unbiddingly - <br />Involuntarily <br />to reach for the long slim <br /> <br />Cigarette. <br /> <br /> <br />Shaking fingers <br /> <br />burn it to life; <br />scorching it <br />crumbling it to ashes <br /> <br />taking its breath away <br />to make me feel. <br /> <br />The white cloud <br />streams free - <br />after capture in <br />rotting lungs. <br /> <br />I know- <br />I know- <br />My time has come <br />as it meant to <br />relentlessly- <br />Crushed out like the <br />last remains of a long <br />slim cigarette; <br /> <br />The hot orange <br />stifled to grey ash. <br /> <br />And still I do it. <br />Dear god - <br />Still I do it. <br /> <br /> <br />7 March, '84<br /><br />Usha Pisharody<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/carcinoma/
