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Red Smoke

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What kills does not give me power

It is a sweet bud of suffering in this hour.

I bloom when I drink from the sanguine cutter;

I breathe from black lungs,

Each stifled bit of life rung

From my soul.

I am a vestige of my limitless brink,

And each blow strengthens my think.

With dripping chest and a pack of Camels, I refuse to die.

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I actually 'saw' this poem as I read it. Amazing use of imagery.

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