So often I inhale your cathartic cocktail;
it swoons me from my study, my brain trails.
Homogeneous with my velvet red intertwines, all else hails.
All exhales whisper, loftily, a separate tale.

Your embers are like no other;
they glow of yesteryear and retract into the present.
The warmth and the darkness, you segment.
Each draw, intoxicating, one after another.

Like a con artist you remain vague, and disappear;
any remaining inflection sails beyond the oculus;
presence constant, but hueless.
Those unacquainted always sneer.

Knowing not, your gift is of the most diverse;
but, in the end, like all else, your essence is a curse.