The cigarette smoke burns my lungs,
but the glow is my only light
for the coming dark.
I have the cough and the slack
in my chest tortures my breaths,
but I persevere,
the relics of a healthy body turning black
until all that is left is the wheezy
breathlessness of detachment.

I am performing the slowest suicide possible,
cancer not far away now,
soon to have my heart in its grip,
holding tighter and tighter
until it squeezes all life from it,
and I am left cold and broken
in a grave of my own digging.
My singing voice is raspy
and my voice breaks at the high notes,
so now I sing sad folk songs
and breathe out broken veils
of mist into the cold air.

My throat is dry, coughing up consonants
and vowels growl with the voices
of smoke monsters.
I have just had a smoke
and now I think I may have another,
fed up of breathing easy tonight.
Create gothic cathedrals of fog
and let them hang foreboding
in the cold night air.