Cigarette

We, the smokers, are wrought from agony.
From our mouths billow forth
not streams of golden ambrosia,
as did the satisfied lips of Solomon’s men and women,
but rivers of malnourished misery.

The terror of the Earth calls to us through our bodies,
with smoke wrought in unnecessary melancholy.
This skin boils with pain underneath
the desecrating sun, a torn veil
due to the bad weather,
where the light itself has become
the only gateway to hell.

My eyes, tired and stained,
utter a desolate voice
—a blasphemy of caresses—
while the flames dance on my flesh.