by D.J. Pink

His love song long sunk in silence,
He contemplates doing himself violence,
Pumpkin skin thin as parchment.

Achy groans risen into rant,
He goes unnoticed on the pavement,
No wilder-eyed than any other phantom.

Bats cup darkness in wings of skin.
Amazing, how they skim
His skies, warp, cast distortions.

There!  That caged wind in the willows
Sounds like someone begging for forgiveness.
He, at his age, still fearing shadows.

His own mind plays him dark
Who used to be so sharp!
A scarecrow stumbling across the park

With his own heavy head cradled
In claw hands stuck on stick arms,
Doesn't hear the car horns!

The last thing he ever asks
Is of a gang dressed in black.
But they can't hear him

Otherwise why the laughs?

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