Inhale that last cigarette, with all your Breath.
Take in a puff of Smoke.
Withering lungs wait for death.
No one listens but it's no joke.
It collects in the diaphragm, the Nicotine and tar.
I know I can quit but it's gone to Far.
Six months to live, Six months later here I am.
Cancer ate me to a shell of a man.
Just a boy,he ran away from home .
Working in the coal mines,it didn't help.
He feared his parents I knew as mean.
There was no time to talk.
He just told me he loved me and I believed.
Times were tough, dad had to provide.
We all had to work, there was no free rides.
He played out the hand that he was dealt.
Sad he's gone is how I felt.
I see his smile but only when I dream.
My dad is gone. Fifty eight is too young.
I miss my father.
Richard Orszulak 2/11/2011
