In the quiet night, a spark ignites,
A slender stick of paper and leaves,
Whispering secrets to the shadows,
As the world around quietly breathes.

The smoke curls and dances in the air,
A ghostly waltz of dreams and despair,
Each puff a story of fleeting time,
Etched in the haze of nicotine’s rhyme.

The ember glows, a fleeting star,
In the vast sky of the smoker’s heart,
Its light fades slowly with every drag,
Like memories that drift and lag.

And as the night gives way to dawn,
The cigarette’s life is nearly gone,
Leaving ashes and a lingering scent,
A silent whisper of time well spent.