Smoking a Poem
While the palms form an igloo
to help me lit a cigarette,
smoke leaves my sight, dancing.
While polluting my breath and
diluting my feelings,
it changes the course
as the wind plays the smoke,
here and there.
Ashes spilled over the floor
run to the corners of the room
to sum up randomly,
just like my blood rushing
to one part of the body
leaving me numb.
Nib kept dancing salsa with ink,
along with the scratches and scribbles.
Like many papers and books of mine,
this piece of paper also smells the same,
cigarette, competing with my breath.
A poem while smoking?
I smoke poems,
for the words lit me up,
under the vast sky, all alone.
One fine day; I may die of cancer
but my poems shall be read at my
grave, on every Easter morning,
before the sun rises from the East.