Grey trousers with holes but much less compared to his light-skin-toned shirt. One leg on the other with a dead stare at a stack of wood shining matt on the fiery skylight.
it looks like he took the rights; never thinking about the same turns make a spiral
The poverty-stricken skin and the hard-labour muscles aren’t frightening; it’s imagining what might be going on in that head, but perhaps, it’s a void which can’t be any less terrifying.
the pale eyes were toneless—one might take them for blind —but underneath the layer of flesh and inside the hollow sits a little blue whose chirps aren’t recognised
The man sits in coldness. Waiting for nothing. Wishing for nothing. Numb of thinking. Sick of creating meaning.
still breathing and beating and as alive as any other
"sick of creating meaning" love that part man! keep them poems coming!
I like the lines "Numb of thinking. Sick of creating meaning."
Cause even if you don't choose to do anything, you'll still be alive; and the world will move on as before.
nice poem!!