Smoke

Whisping through the air,

like beautiful strands of hair,

white as a ghost at a haunting,

floating in the wind never taunting,

a dirty little secret it tries to keep,

but everyone knows it likes to creep,

creep upon you slowly while you are entranced,

entranced by the way it tends to dance,

dancing away and drifting apart,

toying with your very heart,

but the way it leaves it is never gone,

and it is intriguing how it is never wrong.

The white wisps of smoke going around,

away into your mind, if found,

a beautiful tragedy surely awaits,

for there is still no sign of escaping our fates.