Puff, puff,
inhale,
the need,
of their cigarette,
hands.

The incomplete feeling,
of not having,
the freedom,
each huff,
gives.

The tips,
of their fingers,
itches,
just for one,
hit.

Breathe,
the smoke,
into their,
lungs.

Kiss,
the filter,
as if it's a lovers,
tongue,
tracing,
each line on their lips,
savoring its taste.

Lifting their heads,
slightly high,
as they blow,
the waves,
to the sky.

Thinking deeply,
and releasing,
stressing less,
the craving,
of their addiction,
under control.

The tingles,
within their nerves,
cools,
settles,
hinged.

Until the beacon,
of its poison,
calls again.

Sincerely,
a servant