Crimson is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold,
Gray is the ash that stiffens and covers all silent the fire.
(A great man I know is dead and while he lies in his coffin a gone flame I sit here in cumbering shadows and smoke and watch my thoughts come and go.)
Crimson, a deep red (like blood) and the  slow  burning – life is  long , not short; though inevitably it does come to an end 
 Cigars  are the  perfect  tobacco product for this poem: cigarettes burn too quickly,  Black & Milds  bring along the notion of poverty, and  blunts are for rappers 

Crimson