I am nicotine
the drug queen.
I command you
with my paper sceptre
to ignite the rolled leaf
and inhale
to the deepest folds
of your lungs,
the poison cloud.

Pay homage to me
with choked coughs.
My cancer cell vassals
and tumour servants
dine on blackened alveoli,
diseased—deceased.

The victim has worn a trench
each day to the same bench.
In a carcinogenic ceremony,
the area at her feet
is a ritual residue
of combusted black soot.

Shaking with anticipation,
her quivering claw
of burnt orange fingers
strikes the trembling match
and ignites the cigarette
with addictive gasps.

Inhaling the toxic smoke.
Exhaling acrid exhaust.
Pulled by the putrid vapours.
Controlled by the nicotine queen.

A cigarette slave
craving contamination
chemically hooked
devoted to tobacco
and suffocating spasms,
shrouded in a polluted haze.