Hot Gun

Flame of death
Till the tip
Of the butt
Burns
To the fag end,
Ending altogether
Into ashes
Leaving behind
The filter,
Tipped with
Stained sponge.
Five minutes
In your life’s total
Vanishes
And evaporates,
With the wind
Erupting lava
Of ringed smokes,
From your mouth’s crater
And the face looks
An ugly volcano,
When sucked in
From the death pipe.
Juxtaposed
With the heat of
Passion and fashion,
And to the effects
It eats away
Your lungs’ pancreas,
The air sacs and alveoli
Dusting down
The rudiments of
Nicotine,
Cankering your nucleus
To cancer
Storing behind
Tonnes of
Pus and tumour,
Symptoms persist
And you go unswallowed
Swaying and swinging
To the death bed.
For months
With capsules and
A syringe plugged
Into the intra veins,
With liquid chemicals
And finally
Garnished with surgeries,
An attempt
To de-root the cankered tumour
And scrape out
The stuffed and stuck pus
From the lungs,
Bronchi
And from where not?
Nothing helps
Let us pray
Says the doctor,
And people around
Watch you with sympathy
Mixed with contempt.
Your foes
Inwardly laugh
And take a break
To have a fag.
From the death cot
You look at them,
And pull up a smile
Bitterly crying inside
Feigning you can live.
But what next?
Your suicide attempt
Comes to a pompous end,
Stepping upon the
Victory stand,
Declaring your
Ultimate journey without ease.
You lie in the grave
Yet unrelieved
From cosmic pressure
And people’s pleasure.
All you left behind
Was polluted air
And polluted fame,
Just because of
The fifteen milli-metered
Hot gun.

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