Ashes

I see them all stand calmly, thoughtful,
sucking the life out of those cigarettes
and spit their souls out with a blow;
just like those around them do to them,
to us, to everyone-It's their way to get back at them.
That's all they are to them:
little pathetic cigarettes
lined up in a box ready to be burnt alive.
Ashes falling on the tray,
exhausted, dry, hot with anger,
just like they fall on bed at night,
some nights.
They crush them, their dreams,
they stop the fire
before they could go beyond.
So many of them,
lifeless, soulless, burnt, falling and falling.
Cigarette or smoker.
They won't survive.