I came upon an aged, aged man, Head drooped, his body holding up a wall. He slowly breathed loud and deep, and then His head was raised, and long he gazed, before he let it fall. An empty stare, shallow and yet deeper than most, It pierced me there, and laid me bare, It whispered "You know not, and never will , what I already knowst", I knew it true, and was destroyed, until he broke the stare, Like a moth drawn to the flame, or an addict to their chosen pain, Or an insect in the spiders lair, dead already for all who care, laid out naked, and utterly bare, I died, but then was reborn, knowing I would never be the same, I looked once more, but he looked not, Accepting this, I walked on, leaving him to his chosen lot. The next day I returned to find, he was gone but in much more than mind, His head beat in, his face destroyed, his life could be described in kind. I tried to cry, to feel some sadness as was due, but a greater sadness his stare had given, and that was one I knew to be all the more true.
I also have written poetry about crazy old people too I find them the bigest trips all fried out sideways down at the local coffe shops
There's an another old guy in our town, long white hair, constantly cycling around, with multi-coloured tassles hanging off his pink bike. Me and my friends nicknamed him "The Truth", I think maybe after a character in a GTA game, not sure. We asked around, and discovered he was a butcher, a male-stripper, and lived in a trailer in the middle of nowhere. We wave at him when he cycles past, and he always enthusiasticly waves back.
