Golden Acres
August 11, 2008The sweet air of solitude stings his lungs.
His skin hangs loosely on his bones.
Emaciated, dying on a bed of decrepitude.
The ceiling white as ever looms over him.
Staring down…mocking his frailty.
It’s white paint and silky smooth surface—never faded.
“Why do you look down on me?” a raspy voice murmured.
Swallowed words filled his empty stomach.
A fleeting satisfaction of hunger revived his ragged bones.
“You’ve never faded, you’re always there with your white surface.
Looking on silently.”
He heard the words echo into his wax-filled ears.
Assurance of sanity, a grasp of something real.
As the sun sets the ephemeral whispers of the grave fills the room
he melts into his bed.
His hands, his skin, his face
lies indistinguishable under the pale folds of the cold sheets.
He glances around the room, sees nothing.
He floats on to nothingness.
He sees an old man lying on a bed…lifeless.
Cringing with pain, overflowing with tears of suffering.
Lifeless—nobody’s body.
The ceiling stares on
silently.
