Last Gasps

In his crooked, coarse hand, a fag end expended somewhat like his life still savoured, but his thoughts transcend mists of smoke, they'd internalise all that's gone before in search and has never returned his gaze. Why did nobody come back perturbed? Put him out of his malaise. Tell their sad story; sure, if he could He'd return at 10: 30 a.m. and whisper a word. Smoulder down another smoke, assured. One last time, his deathbed was deferred. In that crooked, coarse hand a fag end wet saliva on his beard, 'I'm back, old hags. I died, but I have returned to attend. This is my funeral, and I hear your last gasps.'