One Final Death Croak

my tongue gyrates around the cigarette smoke. twirling, twisting, rolling it around like some sort of macabre waltz. as if they're both reveling in my sorrow, together cavorting in the most intimate yet innocent of life's essences of pleasure. like it's sampling...savoring, courting the piquancy of arsenic & fiberglass just as it has all of my other mistakes. as if this one part of me is l̶o̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ living abundantly even while the rest of me putrifies into some sort of opioid addled, rage induced vesication on the inner gut of humanity.
I tentatively curl my fingers, the sepsis resides here, too; in all I have touched and likewise destroyed I can feel the contagion throbbing in the pulp of my tips in time with my internecine pulse.
numb.
I callously seethe wondering on the dynamics of why & how, it is that the origin of my undoing is the very organ that seems will be the one that succumbs only in the final throws, the inevitable end of my affliction. submitting in weariness to my self-prescribed apathies like the feel of a desperate man jumping from a capsized vessel to polar waters, I soon come to the vaguely cutting realization that it does not matter, it never did, and that all of my hurt & all of my rage are for naught. in the end, I guess, it will have it's say, after all.
after all it has done and not done, somehow- just as it had the first blow- still it is heir to the last laugh.

one final death croak.

I knew it was striking for me everytime it curled like an adder, salivating with baleful toxin. excise from me this pestilence for every man should speak his own last words