Nana presumed the cold had whispered silently in sometime during the night. What was left of last night's charcoal was insulated between the four layers of clothing keeping them warm. Her husband sat in the same wheelchair he'd been in for almost 20 years, his cheek drooping over his shoulder, his body slump with careless frailty.
"Wake up, you old sod!" Nana called, "Antiques Roadshow is on the box".
Grandpa opened his misty eyes, disoriented, having only a moment ago time-travelled into the past. He had been dreaming of an age where he still looked towards the future, and not looking back like the old man he now was.
"I don't care about
I am an open book.
An auto-biography.
My leather skin is worn and creased beyond redemption.
I am torn and frayed with faded edges
And I tell a story of crimson kisses,
A tale of pain-filled wishes
And anguish no writer should write about.
Towards the end
Words, sentences, chapters
Are lost in the mesh of childish scribbles,
Faded like childhood fantasies,
Stained by the very ink once used to ignite passion.
Time regresses, but not in the way every man wishes.
It becomes indecipherable like the goo's and gaa's of a baby.
My every word will become meaningless.
Nana presumed the cold had whispered silently in sometime during the night. What was left of last night's charcoal was insulated between the four layers of clothing keeping them warm. Her husband sat in the same wheelchair he'd been in for almost 20 years, his cheek drooping over his shoulder, his body slump with careless frailty.
"Wake up, you old sod!" Nana called, "Antiques Roadshow is on the box".
Grandpa opened his misty eyes, disoriented, having only a moment ago time-travelled into the past. He had been dreaming of an age where he still looked towards the future, and not looking back like the old man he now was.
"I don't care about
I am an open book.
An auto-biography.
My leather skin is worn and creased beyond redemption.
I am torn and frayed with faded edges
And I tell a story of crimson kisses,
A tale of pain-filled wishes
And anguish no writer should write about.
Towards the end
Words, sentences, chapters
Are lost in the mesh of childish scribbles,
Faded like childhood fantasies,
Stained by the very ink once used to ignite passion.
Time regresses, but not in the way every man wishes.
It becomes indecipherable like the goo's and gaa's of a baby.
My every word will become meaningless.
Thank you for the fave on "Sharpies." It means so much to me. I am truly humbled by your fave on something I didn't expect to get so much good feedback on. So thank you so much.