Future

I see his figure, ghastly and appalling.
He stands tall and sharp like an obelisk.
His face pallid, only hollow eyes distinguished
as if they carry the core of gravity
eyes like endless tunnels, I can’t find the light.

Like the gloomy days of a cold winter,
he trudges his way to me.

He stretches his arm, an invitation to days unlived.
“Take my hand” he says,
a voice as destructive as an earthquake.
shaking, I rest my palm on his.
An arcane cold takes home my hollowed chest.

 

26/02/2016 © Waseem Sherif