Poem: Smoking King

I stare at the
Smouldering ashes of the last
Tab end
I've smoked.
Drawing comparisons from
The nicotine
Stained butt and the
Dried yellow skin
Now grafted on my fingers.
The smoke distracts me slightly
Billowing pleasantly
Across the room,
Arcing and twisting
Like a disturbance
In the air.
It puts me in mind
Of the many times
In those very
Very early hours
When I've delved deep into that
Decaying mound,
Hoping,
With little belief,
That there might be a
Second chance
For one,
Maybe two,
Of those forgotten companions
To experience
Rebirth.
It's not something I
Do with pride,
It feels
A little filthy
And more than once I question
If I'm actually
That desperate.
But as I weave
My magic
With tired hands that should
So long ago have rested,
I can't help but feel
That I'm the
Envy
Of everyone else
In the room.
For those
Five minutes
I feel like I'm the
Smoking King.