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Smoke Not The Truth
A faint redolence of cigar smoke
hung on his clothes.
Did he run the errands at midnight?
In the hazy eyes, the loath.
To caress not, the place,
a guilt on the lips;
which spoke not in sooth,
And heard just the clock's ticks.
All the morning, kept him away,
away from what needed to be done.
But its distinctive couldn't be kept,
for who had lied to thyself and won.
So smoke not ever,
for salubrious is not the vow;
It may leave the throat and skin, but,
it strangles the mind, to loathe bow.
© Supriya Baranwal
hung on his clothes.
Did he run the errands at midnight?
In the hazy eyes, the loath.
To caress not, the place,
a guilt on the lips;
which spoke not in sooth,
And heard just the clock's ticks.
All the morning, kept him away,
away from what needed to be done.
But its distinctive couldn't be kept,
for who had lied to thyself and won.
So smoke not ever,
for salubrious is not the vow;
It may leave the throat and skin, but,
it strangles the mind, to loathe bow.
© Supriya Baranwal
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