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Old Man Dying in The Fog

Kenneth is a rural citizen of Hamilton, Ala., and has begun to observe life and certain things and people helping him to write about them.


My inferno chokes, and wild geese numbering in four -- fly on death's
Sudden wing . ..
I'm found alive, what master is my mathematical breath?
My crawling, my sin, my eyes see a horrible figure by the door
It's me, it's me, I cry a slobbering plea . . .
Oh, he laughs, he's an old man dying in the fog.

I hate the slobbered fool and the scared wrinkles so
But I cannot find, and will not see her wine this way.
My hands shake with years of buryig bones--but I ate.
Yes, I gagged-down a slumbering yak with decay.
But no sign of backward glance I see...
I am but an old man dying in the fog.

Vicious scorpions raise headless looks to my feet
And squirm quickly as if to lance a boil with their
Tails, but I feel sleep cast toward me: I give my breath
here and at last . . .
I am but an old man drying in the fog.

I crawled to a quiet rock to close my wrinkled eyes, for I know
That death, oh, death, ever so impatient, awaits on my limbs to fall.
I've went where people go, and hide beneath the hideous snow.
Crying is faded now, but so is substance and so will I cease to crawl
I am just an old man dying in the fog.

How much, how less, would I have followed choice pathways
Rather than stagnate slowly in the ditch of filth where I am.
I will not beg for peace, or love, or sense, or some distant gateway.
Before tomorrows of two, nights of many, seize the lamb.
At passage dark, and door of rust . . .I sigh,
I am but an old man dying in the fog.

Writer's Summary

in cases such as this piece, the old man, who represents a lot of us, is now facing the final absolutes of his life. Other than that I chose to not overdo the adjectives, half-rhymes or metaphorical statements. (Kenneth)

February 23, 2021__________________________________________________


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