A fragile crown is formed, at the end of the tip, flaming, consuming you in the process. The golden crown of the kinds, studded with jewels is a thing of the past. A fragile crown is formed, by the very flame you light, it kills, but what doesn't? The smoke drifting upwards, the smoke that disappears into the darkness, a part of you, your life,vanishes into the air. You leave a mark of your own, something which's undeniably yours, your breath, coloured. The immense sadness of ones own being, one's existence is something that cannot be depended upon. We all want golden crowns, pleasures of life that will take us forward, something that'll pave our way up the evolutionary ladder. It looks deep inside you, the smoke, feels your lungs, touches your heart and stirs your brain. Melanoma carcinoma, you die your own death. The feeling of you being you is complete, with the inner being touched and simulated. A fake smile, a gentle touch and a genuine sense of belongingness, be it be with a person or a thing, is something which involves compromise and break. The fragile nature, the Aztecs understood it and delivered it with precision. Everything's a poison, anything in the excess. We grow old, unable to walk, see, hear and talk. We just think of the past, the long lost future we all dreamed of, the future we'll all lose. The love, doesn't stand by, it's all till you let the flame to glow and let it consume you. You will be weak, we all are. Knowing our insides and letting our life fly by, in smoke. The desperation in people will just eat you up, just like the Walrus did in Lewis Carroll's poem. They hide under fake skins and painted glamour with one intent, to eat you up. You don't get a crown, and you don't see yourself burn. There are things simpler than that, we don't want to live till a lifetime, whatever we got is what we got, carcinoma or carcinoma, we know that the crown's waiting, waiting to be blown by the wind. It consumes you and you seek revenge too, you burn it down, till the last puff, self gratification, revenge in cold blood or sheer madness. You crush it down for the pain it caused, and you you will crush it down for the pain it will cause. But it's someone who understands you to the fullest, it burns and dies. You go up in smoke. You don't leave there, you just light another one. To see yourself killed again. Outside, you're killed everyday and you can't stomp the evil out and take another chance. You don't get the crown and you probably won't. Death is fearful, in every other way, but wasn't life the same too? You get a reason, no one lives, some day you'll get your revenge but you won't stay alive to see it. But here you do. The flaming ash crown goes into the ashtray, it's just another puff, but it's you, living your life and it's you, dying in it. And you get to take your revenge, from life, and all its sadness. And sadness is, the only way to know you. People won't remember the smile you spread, but they will for sure remember the tear you shed. It's just a way of life. Another drag and there's you. Living.