A white fog swirled around me, dense, murky, incomprehensible.
A fog that I watched with a child’s eyes as it came and went.
They smoked, my mom and dad. Smoke that was this fog, a poison fog.
It started when I was a tiny boy, my coughing, wheezing, difficulty breathing.
They tried to stop, they really did.
But they were hooked, addicts just like a junkie with his needles.
It started when I was a teenage boy, their coughing, wheezing, difficulty breathing.
They should have stopped, they couldn’t stop.
They were users, so still they smoked. Smoke that was a fog, a poison fog.
My father gone, my mother critical, their coughing, wheezing, difficulty breathing.
They finally stopped: death made them stop.
No longer hooked — for users, death is the only winner.
I have never smoked; no more coughing, wheezing, difficulty breathing.
I watched them smoke, my lessons learned.
I was very well trained — I’ll never create that poison fog.
This poem and the included images are Copyright © 2008 by Colin Kelly (colinian). They cannot be reproduced without express written consent. Codey’s World web site has written permission to publish this poem. No other rights are granted.
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