He inhales,
The ghosts of death,
Little soldiers sent by Hades
To fight this battle,
They enter.
They'll climb through your lungs
Cling to them like leeches
And claw their way,
Inside out.
Eroding you from the inside,
Slashing back and forth,
Warriors.

He exhales,
And the injured leave,
Smoke curling around his trembling
Lips,
His face slack,
His lungs infected.
The soldiers prevailing,
Taking control.
He doesn't notice.
He'll stomp the cigarette on the ground,
**** the remaining soldiers left in that short little stub,
Exhale all the injured soldiers out,
Letting the smoke waft around his lips,
The way he let his soul spill out,
The frigid chilly air whisking it all away.

He's just a carcass now.
Half dead.
He doesn't have long left.
He's running out of time.