Stature Of Senility
S
Smoky Hoss
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Sitting on all his years
like a hard wooden chair,
looking, motionless into the dense
woods of forgotten memories,
staring with abandonment
feeling them draw near and
rise up,
through the crooked legs, into
tired arms and bent fingers, past
the chest with it's slowly beating
heart, up the neck, through
the nose with ancient unknown smells,
into the eyes,
seeing something way out there
move, not recognizing the shape,
but
no further.
The brain lays in wait, terrified
it will never
remember...
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