A puff of death

Sitting there in a saffron robe,
Crouched in, he is affected by the winter-phobe.
Towering above his head a spiral of tangled hair robes,
And hands unwashed, quivering to the hold of dope.

As he inhales, pits form on his wrinkled cheeks,
And mucus like dewdrops from his nose leaks.
He wipes it with a closed fist,
Troubled enough he looks with the morning-wind and the mist.

Snakes of smoke jet-out from his nostrils,
And tears of winter cold stream down his cheek-hills.
He lays back with the tranquilizing effect,
In an aftereffect, numb with an immobility defect.

A blanket of mist sits atop him and on the herbs.
Dogs wander around him while goats chew his robes.
His beard covered with tiny droplets, those glitter like pearl in the first rays of the sun.
And morning walkers as they cross him, pass a pun.

With a dropped jaw, unconscious he lay.
Perhaps dead by now, his dry lips curled the yellow hay.
Time moved, but not he.
Inwards in no time, towards him people flee.

Then came an ambulance and later a police car,
Looking at everything I stood far.
Died by the puff, he was carried, pulled by hands and his ankles dragged.
And down the road in the busy street they vanished.