Hoarsely, he whispers,
another day disposed,
thinking that these words
mean so much more than those.
He musters a sigh
and toys with his pipe,
fondly recalling
exhaled smoke and spent life.
The room's curtains billow
and light dots his face,
speckling his wrinkles
like a poorly washed glass plate.
Still, in these moments,
he finds some respite,
for he sees dusk approaching
and he's grown fond of night.
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