In the quiet shadows of a moonlit night,
A cigarette whispers tales of time and ash,
Its glowing tip a beacon in the dark,
Drawing in the breath of those who seek solace.

Spirals of smoke ascend, weaving through the air,
A ghostly dance that sways with the breeze,
It curls and twists, a fleeting wisp,
A transient mark upon the endless sky.

The ember fades, consumed by its own fire,
Each inhale a promise of fleeting joy,
Yet beneath the veil of fragrant haze,
Lurks the quiet toll of a lover’s embrace.

In the end, the cigarette falls to earth,
A spent relic of whispered dreams,
Its story told in silken threads,
A silent testament to moments past.