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Cigarette Smoke
In a fever dream, someone told me;
Ashes are for pyromaniacs, what cigarettes are for the addict.
A research says nicotine is a cognitive enhancer.
Fancy way of saying- “you’ll die, but wiser”.
And when the smoke on mirrors
smudges the face staring back at you,
you’ll be blindsided, teetering at the edge of a precipice.
Smoke induced psychosis with a touch of weed,
we are, but a dying breed.
Passions crushed on papers of deceit,
smoke up, lest you have calls to heed.
Who am I to judge, the cigarette combusts?
You tap one on your watch, a force of habit,
watched too many of Humphrey Bogarts,
or merely an interpretation of gravitas?
Who am I to judge, smoke billows in tufts?
The dead, awaken in the graveyard.
The Way
A samurai wrote ages ago,
if you know ‘the way’, you’ll see it everywhere,
patterns will emerge from a musician’s symphony,
your art will be dyed in similar shades,
your hands will caress a familiar face.
There will be no day
where your thoughts escape the way.
It will follow you around until its bound
by a contract of blood, written across fate.
It’ll be in the stars you see in the sky,
the lines of destiny you have tried to defy,
it will only find you when you want to be found.
The way is for you to walk alone, unchartered, unbound.
***
For the love of art,
Anuradha Gupta
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