At the end of the busy New York City street
An old man stood with cigar in a hand
It rested in between his feeble fingers
And slowly burnt away in a flicker

Breathe
Release
Finally at peace
The cigar was his only honest piece

He heavily exhaled the white fume
Its ash paved its way to the cement
His exhale gave him a sudden surge of distress
But also a simultaneous inner relief

Apparitions of when he was five
Haunted him for a time
But the thick fumes shooed the little boy away
Tucked away in a translucent blanket of sound

The cigar was his parole
Its bittersweet scent an ephemeral haven
The rigid body loosened as he stroll
Yet did he see the two ravens

They observed him from a distance
And flew away with his fumes on their feathers