Old Man

His wrinkles resemble his years of living
loving, learning, recieving, giving.
He sits with his head bowed, eyes to the floor;
his numbed brain and limbs can’t go on any more.
He can’t even cry, ‘cos he can’t remember
a single day since last December.
He may have loved or even lost
but he’s forgotten.
His brain’s rotten.
He thinks of the past, his life as a child –
of growing up and growing wild.
But his memories are tinted in a dull grey light
though he thinks he was happy –
so it doesn’t seem right.
Perhaps he’s ignoring his happy past
because there’s only so long a daydream can last…
He feels quite content to have lost all conscience
for he’s so unaware, how could he care?
He lives in a realm of basic delusion
he forgets to think. The world’s an allusion
‘cos really he’s dead, his soul’s gone AWOL
but his body keeps fighting;
fake teeth biting;
shaky hands shaking;
sleepy eyes waking.
The birds are still singing –
church bells are ringing
and life goes on
though his soul’s gone.

© Annie Ridout

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