he sat on the still shiny varnished rocking chair.
as each swing, he waited as the sun drowned and disappear
to see its grandeur on the morning.
and to see he feels the rays of the sun fill the gaps
of his being aged - completes the day more than the cup of coffee
and cigar.
on the top of his home lived the dreams of his being on top
of the world.
he never wished that those high rise building would build
the interruptions on his aorta. the consolation he get
is to see people walk covered by not their own shadow,
the modern shadows of technology do.
he counted many times the cycle of day.
he never grew tired of it for to stop, it do. as the wrinkles add up
just like the rings, his mentality decreased. no one killed,
but someone did. the speed revolted violently.
on the steady veins of hands raved the oxygen but he firmly
grasped a little image of him. as he bodily depart, he welcomed
the black hole of childhood. gravity pulling him taught him
the physics of life which he soon and somehow understood
as karma.
the only solution is to hold the weapon straight into his face.
in his blood, if it would scatter violently, was all that was him.
this was the solution though he was. a snake on a snake.
the pleasure of the lungs clamoring for air is no different to
the nose exhaling what was once inhaled.
he closes eyes. he feels the darkness of the absence of light,
creep into his body. it made his ears deaf. it made his tongue tasteless.
it made his skin numb. it made his mouth mute. this is the closest thing
he could get to virtually perfect his hands closed on a fit box.
the still blue water was the still blue water. it was not just a was, it was and is and will be.
he still plays with his imaginary friend and thought. he was
the it, running for something he would never catch even a shadow
for that player even outcasted him. he carried it in his hunchback,
the worldly thought of his never ending it.
as irritating as the frustrated sneeze in his childhood,
no one would now even danced his dance of southpawed foot.
syncopated are the beat, just like how syncopated his heart was and
how syncopated his life is.
what a wonderful sight it is to see the aged danced of the different syncopated
dance they perform.
he saw the darkness of coffee and ashes, as he looked one morning,
the part of his life when he did not even understand a thing.
he continued to make a simile of the two, but this only put him into
a sleep he called a thing he never understood. the disillusion of
the letters formed to describe it was his most nostalgic remedy
of getting away from the thing he never understood.
if he now could stay awake in the middle of the nowhereness of
the night, then he could now sit still in his chair. all that he really wanted
was the darkness seep and creep into him and learn to accept
the darkness was the thing he never understood.
a ray of light filled his gaps of aged face slowly as the
helenic view gave the solution.
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