Pyre Poem

 

Two fingers of my left hand

Like the fertile soil, hold on to the roots of my cigarette.

My hand on top of a page long poem-

I have just written.

Smoke makes way through the words of my poem

Succumbs it,

Burns it.

My poetry smells like a life burning.

The life that I have put down on the paper.

To the reader, I shall send some pyre this summer.