I see the Ashes of past cigars,
once lit and left to die shamelessly,
sitting amidst, sprinkled, between prison bars,
only to cast gray floaters Before my Eyes dully.

In i breath, the rich, Cold, ashy soot air,
whilst i sit, stare calmly, and wait,
not just for my ragged soul to bare,
but gingerly, for the rayed moonlight glistening.

It speaks softly, timelessy, like a chill breaze,
waiting, dutifully,for Another era,
this one is short lived and passes with ease,
and the darkness shrouds all reflections but mystery.

Close friends say it feels wrong to smoke,
and I haven't in quite a while.
Part of it is being in protected Sweden, choke.
Another is being born in a time without style.

the poem is awesome my friend i like it very much

Thank you. It was based off of the experience of finding out i wasn't the type. I realize I don't have the health to spend.