The dart of My nicotine Verse

As the vapour of peace within my lungs, the emptiness holding the heart finds a passage to meet the shadows to talk to the unsaid words again. The Nights were calling by the moon with their last inhalation of death. I am holding the stick of fire in between my fingers, but wasn’t that the art I called for? The art of painting memories in smoke, where life is meeting its darkness, not to run from, just to wait for a moment twice to think about what was lost. The walls of human skin trapped the misery where the vapour of the nicotine drag was the only escape to the unsaid question, and the cage of neurons searched for. The wrapped sticks of tobacco, lit at their edges, erase the heart’s uncertainty, where the soul waits for answers, never replying. It’s blamed for reducing the timeline of life in every burning drag that inhaled, but no one ever asked what it caused you to come to me, maybe that was what forever it meant to be my nicotine verse.