alone lyman

Eccentric Lyman smokes.

On red velvet he sits,
bellowing plumes of grey
from torpedo cigars,
chuckling at his own jokes,
although everyone knows
that this aging man has
naught a sense of humor.

His horn-rimmed glasses fell
'twixt his long haunting thighs.

Coughing, wheezing, he looks,
his gaunt face, disheveled.

Looking anguished, he chokes.
Remnants of his spittle
fly towards the dark sky,
unappealing, unloved.

Gone ever, forever.

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