Tinted Cigarettes

it was with every wisp of smoke and the withering hope that i kept turning my aspiration to ashes

the sort of wreckage, i could put a stop on but would not

my lipstick tainted cigarette was now turning plural each day and more so

eloquently narrated stories in a language i would not speak

the apparent verbosity had now started to lack empathy

as i flickered the optimism like dust in the thin air

it daydreamed me into going back to an era and pave way for a havoc

that hadn’t finished business, said it was the right cynic thing to do

or was it really just a sweet formal invitation

to the shattering reality to visit and grant me a beautiful death yet again?

who is to say though, whether i was embracing or gambling the end of me

wasn’t it just a metaphor after all?

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