the ancients

 

The crackled skin of their faces

hangs in folds

over their fragile skulls,

overflowing with years.

They sit, gliding

held by machines,

their bodies weakened

and broken by time –

trembling at nothing.

Their stories

tangled in their tongues

their fading eyes

crazed with dimmness

fading, flickering

failing.

Slowly becoming more and more alone.

 

 

 

 

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