The old man and his key

He was past any conceivable prime.
Ensconced in his stuffy shack, which he never left, he lead the life of
a hermit; through grimed windows, he enjoyed the seasonal masquerades,
but without suffering the world's indiscretions.
He felt for his old trusted inveigler in his pockets and found nothing but flakes of rust.
The door shut forever, he contemplated death with a smile.




Comments

Thorum said…
Very moving. Captures a mood so deep.
5 July 2014 at 16:13
Goswinus said…
Thank you, Thorum, for the kind compliment. While I am usually a cheerful lad, I have seen so many instances of tragedy, death and woes that writing this stuff comes naturally... without pain or sorrow, though.
13 August 2014 at 13:03
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ode

Image
Rise up towards the dawning red, never a hostage to that stolid fiend, the moor of despairs - Your flames burn those fermenting shadows, where an indolent spawn was birthed from tears of seasonal limbo. Walk tall through wintry haars and in the dead of the night, cast your wrath around and avail yourself a new Kingdom!
Read more

A slant of mirth

Image
From where the sun scorches the soil to gold dust, drawn by white horses over roiling cold waters, a silver needle plunged into rock hard bedding - as green blood was spilled, the morning star withdrew, the horizon blushed; dewed petals quenched their glumness with juvenile fire.  
Read more

White Blossom

Image
White blossom seated in a wreath of gnarled fingers; a prim lodestone harangued by the glaring moans which in haunting waves run off from parched thirsty mouths. Their predatory desire brewed from acrid pain skews her lofty aspirations and turns her ringing laughter to an idol of shame. To wistful humility devoted, she withers and bloats til all her unshed sweet tears are collected in a cuirass glossed with the colours of her hawkish suitors: burning ardour and the scorn of the immature.
Read more