Grandad's Last Smoke

Ash falls like grace from his crooked cigarette burning away like all reason in his twisted mind
A range of mountains form at the giants feet ashen grey likened to his misery
Clouds of discontent spew from aged lips smothering all with restless fury
Yellow stained fingers reach out for the sun
The quest for fire at its end
Hubris born within his ashtray over trodden with fallen ones decaying in their glass grave
His face well weathered by hard years and endless grief
One could map rivers by the lines and wrinkles he wears so proudly
Vanity worries not the ancient
Crippled yet not broken his body rusty with decades of tears
The old man lights up again
An encore of smoke to pass the time
Moments of clarity come and go just as his Zippos eerie glow
A last soiree of warm rye and tobacco
His last request before at last he greets death with stale breath and no regrets
"Take my lighter son, remember life drags on, so smoke them if you got them, I'll see you here or there, and remember son whiskeys there to share."
Death took the old man
Withered like autumns leaves I mourn the giant
As I carve mountains of my own