old

the moss under his nails speak for him
his mouth eternally shut by the strands of a looong white beard

forgotten, unforgiven, living out of a rusty heart
with black and white pictures of his memories
tattooed on his lungs
he barely breathes

the sidewalk becomes a war zone of silence
I see him float by
the family he left behind,
the bottle he decided to empty before church,
the car he chose to drive into the magazine kiosk,
the unexisting bars behind bars,
a happiness only found within a misery

the moss under his nails drips
onto the napkin on the table
i'm feeding him motor oil for his heart
i'm taking pictures of the table setup, the salt the pepper

he is old and immaculate
forgotten and mute
me