Smoke rings...

Didn’t life see us dance?
In the arms of death,
That giver of breath, if, so.
What commodities, do
These smoke rings have left.

Surely in essences burned
It is purer, watered and fed.
Better than a single scant,
Mountain-rowan tree:
Whose berries be amber
Pink, white or red,

Who amongst us need lodgings?
When vapours condense
Beyond the rip-shore-tides
Of flesh: Better to be, the
Music; never heard sung.

Than one, that has rung.
And rung, and rung...
Only to be virulently alive!
But;
Still in essence, tone deaf.