The Self-Imprisonment of the Old Man

The Self-Imprisonment of the Old Man

White hair sags over my cheeks as I felt the past.
The feel of a Stylus in my hands as I cut into the clay,
the feel of the gas mask over my face to avoid fate
and the shaking as I moved a stick trying to loose the reaper.
The touch of bare leg as I move the saw back and forth,
and the feel of plastic as I attach it to a knee.
sense wives essence wink out
and feel my children grew old and die under my care.

My white orbs, larger and brighter than the sun,
pierce through the fog into the future
where I watch others perish and suffer through the darkness,
the selfish-nature eats the hearts of all my children,
only hollow shells remain,
where people forget life,
where lust is forbidden,
and where love is a swear word.

Chained behind the tissue bars of Tartarus
stuck in limbo till the bars rot to nothingness.
Cloaked in robes of leaves, brown and green,
protecting me from the chill of mortality.
My muscles are all but gone, replaced by sagging skin,
I sit here in as old and immovable as the trees,
as the shell carries me around.
A parasite I am, nothing more, nothing less.