The road to paradise
is long and harsh.
Vines intertwine on the path,
as thick fog blinds and hides;
difficult to find, drowning in
the smoke of cigarettes.
Inhale the crisp, cold air
exhale fogs up the vast sky above.
The rhythm of breathing,
the rising of chests
are signs of life.
Evidence of paradise,
evidence of lit cigarettes.
Above green mountains,
across the sea
paradise demands
purification of the soul
as the rushing river flows through our fingers.
Heaven has been called,
to wash away all sins
destroying
the scent of cigarettes.
The closer to paradise
becomes unveiled.
To fall from Heaven
must have been painful
like skin against cigarettes.
The road is long and harsh:
walking through it hurts the sole.
A place not made for smoking cigarettes
is no paradise
to call home.
