A puff of white charming trinkets,
Escapes my mouth edges.
The reddish glow reflects in my eyes,
Butt was near, so were lies.
Another cig on its way,
Will the truth fade away?
The rings were magnificent and pure,
Alas! But they were gone.
With an ugly butt, I am left alone.
Life is a beauty,
Like that white cig.
But in the end,
You get that burning air,
Which destroys the handsome and fair.
I will write a song someday,
It will take all the burnt butts away.
Life is like a cig,
Burning slowly,
Heating fast.
Eating the insides,
Comforting thoughts.
Life is like a cig,
Admired by all the pigs.
Hiding the baldness with that wig,
Beating the miseries with a twig.
But the pig is innocent,
Thwarted by world and made to bend.
Ready to get slaughtered,
Soul is already murdered.
So gone are those magical puffs,
Life can't be like those pure and silent puffs,
Sailing skywards and full of freedom stuffs.
Life is like cig and not those puffs,
Intake is tough and outcomes rough.
I hope to make this life like puff,
But I know that it can be only that cig,
Burning like hell,
Insides ready to yell,
No one to tell,
And the leftover burnt butt to fell,
Over deep dark unyielding depths.
