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Like a tyranny it flews,
Deep in human lungs,
With its sinned self,
A cigarette's smoke.
It burns, but human inhales,
The fading pleasure,
The faking pleasure,
Of a cigarette's smoke.
Can the time be turned?
Lungs are burnt,
In need of help,
Inhaling a cigarette's smoke.
When death be turned,
Time has come,
The cancerious self,
Kills a cigarette's smoke.
51 Launches
Part of the Poetry collection
Published on May 30, 2018
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