Poetry

The clouded judgement

magic in his finger tips,
in his wallet
and those perfunctory puffs,
a wand, white,
that conceals a poison,
only he would know
what it takes
to conjure these
clouds of pleasure.

losing the battles
against his thoughts and time,
he inhales a sooty relief
with a countenance divine,
to soothe the losses
his wearisome woes,
only he knows the price
his darkening soul pays
to indulge these lethal
clouds of convalescence.

closed eyes that betray
an obsession in introspection,
an excuse to shun the world
to explore the universe within,
you may not enjoy his acts
but would imitate when put on the stage
for insulated minds never realize
that all it takes to rise and reach the sky
is to shed the weight of the self
and feel others in the nascent
clouds of compassion.

Written in response to Clouds and World No Tobacco Day

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