Locked In A Cloud

Religiously at seven am
Every morning he quits,
And in the next ten hours
It doesn’t once come to mind.

During the work day
The very scent tends
To be really sickening,
Leaving him nauseated.

Then he gets home at five,
And starts on the pack

That accompanies the nights
Of unrelenting insomnia.

Locked in his bedroom
The smoke was no bother,
But the hypocrisy hung
Heavy in his heart.

Every good reason came,
Along with the mindset,
Turning to strong resolve
Again by morning.

The history of it
Began with the stubs
Secretly taken from ashtrays,
To mimic adults at age nine.

He chose his first brand
By the age of twelve,
For its sleek gold paper box
And how manly it felt to him.

The first time he quit
Was when he was eighteen,
Hearing it caused impotence
He spent six years clean.

Then stated again, because
His girlfriend at the time
Enjoyed lighting up after sex
Or with a few glasses of wine.

After they broke up
He quit once more,
Focusing on his health
And better fitness plan.

He was going well until
Another woman came into his life,
Playing house for three years
Marooned in pretenses.

Her narcissism was pivotal,
Convincing him yet again
To go back down the road
Her stressing lead him.

She was no more a part
Of his day to day now,
And his nights are spent
Locked in a cloud of smoke.

Sometimes making lists,
And loads of promises
To quit again and again
With the sunrise every morning.

Ria 2016