Tuesday Morning Poetry
This one is for the group, but I didn’t get the opportunity to present it since we didn’t really meet last time. Comment away.
The Old Man
The old man. He stood on that hill. With quiet reflection he gazed out at you; his chest heaving, breath almost shades of pungent; he’s too far away–steaming–hating you with eyes thatare void.
You shift uncomfortably–unsure if what you see can be taking place–his eyes are ice to your body–there is the sense that your skin might slough off with a nod from your nerves. You like this notion, but it triggers a gag from the depths of your throat.
The old man. Why won’t he leave? You begin to hate him, his eyes. Why won’t they stop staring at you?
He shifts in the wind–a tree.
Scott • 2 years ago
I enjoyed.
The title automatically made me think of Neil Young. And then I read it, and it reminded me of how I thought of NY about 8 years ago; he just seemed to be a rediculously sinister bastard for some reason. Not so much my thinking these days.
Mike • 2 years ago
Never thought of Neil Young on that one, but the sinister implications are certainly there. I’m starting to think that I specialize in crazy.
larry • 2 years ago
good summary. very descriptive. dig the paranoia.
reminds me of the black freighter part in the watchmen