In the quiet curl of smoke, secrets softly sigh,
Whispers of forgotten dreams beneath a fading sky.
Each breath a fleeting promise, each exhale a plea,
In the dance of shadows, where the soul seeks to be free.

Ashes fall like memories, scattered on the breeze,
The silent song of longing, carried through the trees.
In the gentle glow of embers, stories softly told,
Of passions long extinguished, of hearts grown cold.

Inhale the fleeting moment, exhale the silent prayer,
For in the haze of longing, the truth lays bare.
The gentle pull of habit, the quiet call of need,
In the dance of smoke and silence, where desires concede.

Yet in each tendril rising, hope finds its place,
A fragile line of silver, in the shadow’s embrace.
In the quiet curl of smoke, a story softly spins,
Of battles fought and lost, yet where hope begins.