TuesdayIIII June

Hiding

A sharp mind in a dishevelled Mac.
Once he’d been quite good looking,
He’d gone to Oxford.
Gone to the pub and slept with girls.

Now he was grey, greasy and husk-thin.
Life’s blood had somehow slipped away.
He wasn’t sure how it had happened.
Or if he’d ever tried to stop it.
There hadn’t been a trigger.
One day, life had just turned it’s back on him.

Had it been a quick switch.
Maybe he would have noticed.
But the slow decline,
The ebbing away of time,
Had imperceptibly; dripped, dripped, dripped.

And now it hung, a palpable weight.
Heavy and unequivocal.
Time sat in his head.
Like a tumour it ate him dead.
Too much time had passed.
He couldn’t change the wasted past.
Though time can’t have been the cause.
It had crushed him with its claws.