Smoking In the West Lands

A circle of smog (Held in between my finger tips tasted between in my moisted lips) clogs the room from sweetening fragrance (like flowers or the rain falling showers) thickens to sour flavor caused from by behavoir in smoking this cigar. Heavier than the morning fog (or the explosion of smog of an automobile), shifts in the air in front of eyes and the sunset that steals millions of sighs, glows through peachy colors, while drinking little whiskey as the starlight begins to show- look how they sprinkle and glow. And in the west of empty lands, where the horse and I stand, life is nothing but the whiskey joys of night while making the fog colorful breathing out between my lips.