With a storm swirling in his chest,
he lights the day's first cigarette.
A fog of smoke on the path of his quest,
he breaths it like the pain he can't forget.

The world sees only the fire from his matchsticks,
but there's another flame soaring in his heart.
He closes himself inside walls made of bricks,
the guilt he puffed tasted like ****.

He quivers recalling his loss unrecoverable,
agitated on himslef and his love forgotten.
Like a wounded horse confined to it's stable,
his conscience seems to have rotten.

This story of "a smoker" woud have been a bit longer,
If he would have enjoyed playing a trumpet.
Dreaming about the love he never got from her,
he lights his last cigarette.