Read My Lips

By the way, this is last May's Where There's Smoke, recently reMastered by Anthelian.

Disclaimer: I don't smoke much, maybe three Dunhills a day, though not every day, and I certainly don't recommend you do. Smoke is just too much of a gorgeous metaphor to ignore though, and I admit, I am smitten.

Read my lips, there are smoke signals.

Evidence of fire, burning, heat, a danger sign,

a sign of purification, transformation, transubstantiation.

Fascinating, the aesthetics of smoke, of smoking,
of wielding a phallic prop filled with intent and a very finite destiny,
as I set it on fire and watch it glow, then it turns to ash.

Fingertips, lips, tongue, inevitable half-staring at thoughts stirring,

following the gentle upward curl, a semi-transparent swirl,
proof of time slowing down.

Until time finally comes to a full stop,

crushed out on ashtray's tongue,

just before ashtray swallows it.