The smoke wafted up,
Rising like countless dreams; aspirations.
Metamorphosing into figures and wafting apart
The non-conformist born to a Rightist.
It swirled around commuting on currents,
Swishing, diffusing, entering, retreating.
And then it was called back to the lips,
In a huge gulp, swallowed like dozens of dreams.
This smoke isn’t aware of its imprisonment.
It doesn’t know that another man’s greed is imposing on it’s ability to fly.
All that is known is it couldn’t fly as high again.
The smoke concludes, it failed. It dies.
The man goes on to light another cigarette,
Assuming it to be his birth right, as he throttles dreams yet again
And again and again and again and again.
Till dreams don’t dare to fly again. The man wins. Dreams die.
EDITED BY - DIYA MATHEW