'Puff' Is Not A Magic Dragon Poem by Carolyn Brunelle

The illusion is gone so it's no longer tempting
but I still remember the power
of its seduction after all these years.
That long slow deep draw sucked into the lungs
the flutter of eyelids and roll of eyeballs
as it hits the one nerve you have left, full on.
The huge expulsion in a powerful exhale
that releases tension in inner and outer worlds
as the brain swims in ecstasy;
before it ventures into deeper pools for more
of what it craves.
Again and again, hit after hit
with nothing more to medicate or placate
it becomes how you cope;
you disappear in the urge that carries you
from one pack to another.
Thoroughly bonged, saturated and standing in ruin
there's never a full breath of your own.
You cough and wheeze your way
sickened more and more every day
you get closer to your grave.
But then you're accustomed to breathing shallow,
if you can still breathe at all,
on a road destined to be laid waste and fallow
while you continue to puff your life away.