As a child, I would often proudly proclaim I would never smoke.

I would say "The body is a temple, and shouldn't be stained by THC and nicotine."

As though priest and shaman alike have not reverence for the sacred power of smoke stained air. 

Nowadays, I'd say the oxygen that was once sweet in my mouth has soured.

I'd say I see a little too clearly, and could use the grace of obfuscation. 

I could weep rain and craft clouds with little more than breath and intention. 

Yet the holy wind within me remains undiminished,

I can cleave it, as sharp as a knife if need be,

I smother it with lip and lung,

I shape it with tooth and tongue.

Yet it ever trembles in my chest demanding release,

Sometimes it escapes in squeaking stuttering struggle

Sometimes it seems to only return in anguish. 

But this cycle of repeated release

Vibrato born of storm shaken passion,

Could be called singing.

Or weeping.

or both.