The Old Man Decrepit


(Beware his interest.)

The Old Man Decrepit

The old man decrepit, crumbling.
Gnarled oak hands twisted, crusty;
musty emittance his cologne.
Bent, wrinkled, wrinkles cut deep,
like a bayou, stagnant and dark.
A spidery sub-cellar in
the dank earth.

He receives old man sympathy
from those who don’t know him;
from those unaware … but fear,
from the few that do

We’ve all seen him before.
A split second before fading,
disappearing behind a sudden wall,
or a crumbling corner.
In fleeting, flickering images in dreams.
He’s too large for his age … and
somehow older today than tomorrow.

Shouldn’t that be a warning?

Then beware his resolute interest;
how quick he moves toward.
His eye contact, his dominance,
not unlike predator and prey.
We beg you, please,
immediately turn away.

The old man decrepit stares at you;
now, a penetrating look, singular.
Steely, deliberate, cold,
not a chance it’s happenstance.

He grabs your wrist, vise-like;
his eyes meet yours, oxygen thins.
Odd … you cannot pull apart.
His grip becomes tighter somehow,
as he drains your life away;
stealing your years into his.

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