The moonlit sun

If one is asked to differentiate between a smoker and.A priest ,he may not have problem. But I can not do this ,neither can anyone ; how you ask ?

I lit it to forget.
But memory burns longer than the flame.
The first breath stung less than the silence.
The second one stayed.
Ash on my fingertips, like guilt you can’t wash " only wear.
I called it a habit.
But I knew it was a substitute for screaming.

They said this was weakness.
But it felt like mourning.
They told me to breathe through the pain.
So I did.
One drag at a time.

I’m not afraid of dying.
I’m afraid of surviving without reason.
And if this is my ritual,
don’t ask me why it hurts.
Ask why it helps.

They said: live every moment as if it were your last.
So I did.
I lit the flame with reverence.
Breathed deep.
Held the smoke like scripture.
Exhaled like a prayer.
Each drag a hymn.
Each ash a blessing.
Each burn an act of faith.

They watched in horror.
But I was only obeying.
They wrote the gospel of decay " I just followed the verse.

If pain is purification, let this cough be my psalm.
If death is peace, then let me pass, one breath at a time.

You say I’m destroying myself.
But isn’t that the liturgy?
Isn’t that the gospel?
Live fast.
Die young.
Burn bright.
Be remembered.

This is my offering.
This is your doctrine.
This is the altar you gave me.
I’m only lighting it.

But the fire bent.
The smoke shifted.
And I stayed " not as ash,
but as something between thunder and silence.
Born of fury.
Crowned by stillness.
I am the Moonlit Sun.
And I
remember.

Author's Note

This is my way of thinking please don't leave hate review other reviews are hereby welcomed

Reviews

[redd Brick Keshner]

Here is a poem is a raw catechism of pain, survival, and reclamation.
It blurs the line between ritual and self-destruction, devotion and despair;
recasting the smoker not as a figure of vice,
but as a reluctant celebrant in a liturgy of coping. T
he cigarette becomes incense, the cough a psalm,
the flame a sacrament lit in the dark chapel of grief.
What some call weakness, the speaker baptises into meaning:
not asking for pity, but insisting on dignity in ritual.
By the end, the voice doesn’t dissolve, it transforms.
Not ash, but “something between thunder and silence;”
a being reborn through fire, no longer forgetting.
That closing line lands like revelation: I am the Moonlit Sun.
And I remember. ~as if memory itself now radiates with holy defiance.

[Neha agrawal]

Amazingly crafted lyrical, raw. It reads like a spoken-word confessional at the altar of grief, addiction, rebellion, and survival. The metaphors are heavy with ash and ache, each line stitched with a kind of sacred defiance.

[S€H@J]

Thankyou mam
Due regards