Those tiny tufs of air
That vacillates in and out
Of the nostrils in between takes
Like a swing filled with children
Controlling the peak of its rise.

Visibly considered as nothingness
Viewed with levitation
Or rather a normality
As simple as the process seems
If seized is a taste of death
The flash of how it all ends

Therefore let those daily breathers count
Let each takes represent an effort
A purpose served by you
Before it rolls all away.
Like a paper of nicotine smoked to finish.

Tobi-Makinde Melody┬ę

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