Poetry

Cigarette Smoke

written by: hisquietchild

My best friend, man, you know what's her name,
she called me and told me my dad was to blame.
My day had been ruined by work, bills and rain.
I drove home with road rage on top of my shame.

When I got home my dad was already there,
smoking his cigarettes in his ratty old chair.
Oppressive energy surged through the air.
It helped the humidity frizz out my hair.

I went to my room holding tears with a choke.
My day clung to memory like rings of his smoke.

I fell to my knees like a sinner should do.
I cried out to God, if He'd only come through.
I opened my bible to Job one and two.
I searched for an answer, if only I knew.

I could smell my guilt fill the room and my clothes.
Pity brought me to examine my woes.
Yet I'd forgotten God's Son and the nails that He chose,
dying to sin, then with power He rose.

I could feel the devil prod and then poke,
wafting the stench of that cigarette smoke.

I got to the end of Job thirty-eight,
the fear of the Lord came upon me with weight.
I fell to the floor the power so great.
I thought if I'd blink, I'd seal my own fate.

The devil then whispered at the edge of my ear,
"I'll get Scarecrow and Toto and you little dear."
But the presence of God was a far greater fear.
It silenced the devil and sobered his sneer.

Synapses were triggered; my senses awoke,
leaving only a lingering scent of that smoke.

Laid out as a puddle on a soaking wet floor
I cried out to God, one weak attempt more.
I heard a short squeak with my knock on His door.
It was Jesus! He answered with the thorns that He wore.

I crawled to His feet; the blood was still flowing,
White linen robes that were living and glowing,
Picking me up in His hands that were showing
His love for me and His love for you.