He's got long, gray, gnarly fingers like the branches of a dying tree,
Oily hair that hangs in clumps around his sagging, waxy face,
Dull eyes the color of spoiled milk bearing no life, no spark;
They are sunken in deep as a cavernous and abandoned pit.
His teeth are rotten, yellow, and brown, stained by the sins of his past,
And across his pale skin are infected track marks and bruises,
As bones rattle about in his unhinged body
That's fragile as glass, just as broken.
His heart is dried up and dead,
Where secrets are hidden behind his shriveled-up lungs,
Floating far, far, far away,
Too far to lose touch yet
Close enough to embrace death.
.
