the receding light of dusk,
casts panes of shadows on the husk,
of a man who attempts to write brusque.
hunched over a marble desk,
the room ever so picturesque,
gnarled hands becoming grotesque.
spending each day on a whim,
age does not weary him,
nor do the lights that are grim.
no longer do his eyes dance and play,
cheeks sunken in, sullen and grey,
the shell of a man is wasting away.
YOU ARE READING
Paracosmic Kalopsia
Randoma detailed, imaginary world that is thought to be more beautiful than it really is. -poems and prose and short stories TW: mentions of suicide/self harm/violence. Please be cautious.
