The smoke is the shell, you see. The chemical
is the ghost
a serpent that shed its existence
a lamp left by travelers lost

The lighter is the scythe

no, my dear, I don't smoke
you can praise my father for that
for he doesn't smoke either
no such phantoms roam his walls
no vermin nor marks of traveler's lost
we never smoke, never try
never did we regret to try
that celestial powder