Gamble with the reaper

What’s its attraction,
Slowly killing me from the inside,
With stealth unseen until to late,
Every time I light one it’s a gamble,
Like a one arm bandit three black tumours,
Jackpot a wooden overcoat,
No avalanche of jingling coins here,
Just one over each blank stareing and lifeless eye, Never again to see a richly coloured sunset,
Reds orange deep blues and warming gold,
The world in all its glory,
Relinquished for five minuets of relief,
The enticing swirl of smoke,
The warming feel as it fills my lungs,
Bitter sweet as anxiety passes in to joy,
Bursting through my head like fireworks, Relieving my craving if only for a while,
Nicotine monster abates once more,
Like a retreating sea at low tide,
Soon enough the sea will return to this beach,
As the silver smoke rises,
And burning embers with warming tones,
The rays of sunlight dance through the smoke,
Like lights in early evening fog,
They beem through the ever growing cloud of deathly smoke, But life is good again I relish the beauty I see, Everything is right with the world,
Much to the distain of others around me,
But which of us is the selfish one?
The packet glares at me in warning of horrors unimaginable, Adverts show my future,
Tubes, scars, long draw out death,
Images that don’t stick,
Messages lost in cravings,
Do I listen do I care,
With nicotine fingers grasping at my mind and soul, Pulling me in to its clammy deathly grip, Unable to pull free,
Convincing my mind and body its right, Habit, addiction, weakness, obsession,
I don’t know?
Who does?
No longer done to be hard or cool in a crowd,
To old for that,
What is the fascination,
why do I do it,
Slow suicide for the terminal coward,
Like a bizarre game of Russian roulette,
It will get me I have no doubt,
The chips are stacked against me,
There’s no beating the house in this game,
Just chance to quit while ahead,
So here we go again,
Like the first one of the day smoke burns my mouth and lungs, Just like a fine malt would,
Comforting smells of mellow tobacco,
Warnings forgotten,
Adverts disregarded,
Life is straight again,
Then as many before them discarded and forgotten,
As with me,
Is this my affinity with my crutch,
All that’s left is ash grey brittle and lacking substance, But unlike the phoenix I may never rise again
Can I ever truly rise from the ashes of my life,
Or will I remain used up,
Stubbed and trampled,
But for now I will just gamble with the reaper.

African Blackwood and acrylic bowl. More at Bespoke Woods Facebook page

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