As a child, enthralled by smoke
my mind-controlled by the
chief priest of vestal virgins
to guard over the fire
sentenced to keep the flame
and its elements remain
in Perpetuum.

it goes away, but like cancer
it came back; into my soul.
The gate of irony came crashing in
after celebratory kisses from Himeros,  
and flows of Smirnoff

Now with age
after a couple of decades
mists, clouds, and storms are
puffing out my mouth
— and nose.