Smoking his cigarette, a gold signet ring upon his finger
a complete antithesis to the other dead-ringers,
lips pursed, sipping at his golden liquor
in his eyes dancing excitement does flicker

diagnosed with cancer, he's re-living every dream in his head
for on the eighth day of this month he will be dead -
out and about, picking up ladies at the age of forty
days from kicking the bucket yet his libido still naughty

waking up on the sixth day with the first hangover in 10 years
the bloated pain distracting him from his fears -

no kids, divorced, a total loser
living the life of a player and a scheming user

alas, he'll never feel the wind upon his face
never again have the chance to experience love, hatred, anger or even disgrace
never see the kids he didn't have
never again able to make a decision - be it good or bad

and now sitting alone in his apartment as the eighth day looms
he burns the money in his wallet, exhales their fumes

"I'm... so sorry..."

his signet ring stained, still uncannily gold

attached to a finger now lifeless, stiff, cold.