The Old Man

The old man stared into the mirror;

His eyes once fierce like that of a stormy sea,

Now turned a tepid milky blue;

Swimming in two dark, hollow crescent moons.

 

The fields of gold atop his head now turned to snow.

He stared at his hands; Once taut and firm,

Are now just skeletal remains of what was.

Relics of some forgotten civilization.

 

Suddenly, he is taken over by a fit of spasmodic coughs.

A spray of blood splashes the porcelain sink.

His throat burns like an overused chimney.

The bellows of his lungs gasping, grasping for fresh air.

 

A sickly wave of nausea threatens to consume him,

But he resists to its pleas. He feels exhausted and heavy,

As if gravity was pushing him into the ground.

 

Then, he feels a cold, spidery hand scuttle up his spine

And clamp down on his bony shoulder.

And then he fell into a deep, dark sleep…

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