Through the Smoke

A poem by Achuthan Panikath

Mon Jun 08 2026

We varnish our hungers with prettier names.
More questions left unasked; we hear to speak.
A curated curiosity of campaigned truths,
Every breath a sigh in the language of smoke.

Do we care too much for the fates of the world
Where a billion clamor to hurt and heal?
Or have we simply mistaken numbness for peace,
Calling this slowing poison the wisdom of our times?

We're judged to judge; 'Optimize, son,
Mechanize the game through least resistance.
Crucify the listless; the lost and the loved,
Or flee into bliss — a garden of dreams.'

Another puff. Another dream.

A reality fenced away by repetition;
Same hour folding into itself,
Smoke rising like a final contract
Between thought and escape.

Another puff — wait, a glimpse of reality.

I met myself through the eyes of my son.
Two kids, two times, and I felt seen;
By one, as hope for all he'd be,
By the other, as truth of all he'd be.

I put out this fire with one last sigh.
As the smoke spread thin, another lit within.