Master of Their Fate

Buried in his misery,
as buried in his hood,
he sat inside his vehicle,
watching those two stood.
He never looked directly,
Just reflections on the hood.
He could not be an audience
of those who have it good.

He lit another cigarette
And brought it to his face;
he twisted in a scowl
at the awful, bitter taste
of the nicotine that he had seen
control his meager days.
He never got to call the shots.
He never set the pace.

He pulled upon his cigarette,
Cancer filled his throat.
The clouds of smoke made silhouettes
Of now impending ghosts.

What a mess that second best
was all he ever had,
and that’s to make no mention
of the times he came in last.
Like these foul sticks he smoked,
That told him what to do,
He was told when he should stop or go,
Instructed when to lose.

He had always been so trivial,
So easy to discard.
He could want and wish and covet,
But he never got too far.
There always was a problem,
Always something else came first.
Never a priority,
‘Til death and since his birth.

This will be a lesson
To those who said to wait.
They would see how he could be
The master of their fate.

With teary eyes and full disguise
He loaded up his lungs.
He held it for a minute,
then he let it out because
He finally was ready.
It finally was time.
Now to show the other ones,
That he was not benign.

Reaching to the glove box,
turning off his phone,
The tears dried up and he took up
A countenance of stone.
He made no hesitation,
despite the shaking of his hands.
This time he decided
To make the final stand.

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