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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