Tobacco

I saw tobacco just the other day.
Thick, dark clouds of smoke
encompassed him,
and footprints of ashes
marked his path.
His face was filled 
with a fake happiness,
And his mustard-stained eyes--
filled with an opaque haze--
glared at me
as if I was his next victim.
He spoke to me
in a heavy, raspy voice saying,
"just once won't hurt."
His fingers trembled like a mouse
cornered by his predator;
they reached out to grab me,
and I turned to run,
but his charcoal hands 
caught hold of my neck,
and strained to take away my life.
He varnished my lungs
with his black paintbrush,
marking me as his next
eternal customer.