Cirrhosis of the Soul

The old man

shuffled under

the weight

of      false

contrition.

Glassy eyes,

black and fleeting,

flicked up for a moment

searching for a sign of acceptance

…hoping for warmth.  Shoes like scraped

chalk,    yellow stinking breath,      shaggy

bearded  growths  flecked  with  grey  from

between the cracks. The figure was a mess.

A creature to be pitied…but the danger still

lurked.      You could sense it just under the

skin,  a  sudden  metallic taste in the mouth,

the feeling of rising bile.  ‘It’ sat down with

all  the  grace  and triumph of an aged prize

fighter. Its eyes darkly fixed, flickered with

malice and pride.  Its progeny had returned.

It  was  still  important,  still   in   control…

The

puppet

master

had

not

lost

its

strings.

Sophie E Tallis © 2002

Puppet Strings 25/365 (Photo credit: Louish Pixel)