The Old *******
The old man lies in his tailor clothes,
Scorched by years, a single tear
Tracing the map of his cheek
He stares beyond the ceiling,
Beyond whatever truth he kept.
He was a learned talker,
A sly laugher,
A hard fighter
Honest in the way only liars learn to be.
Now he lies in a shallow bed of old stories,
And I marvel at how swift he moved through the world,
So fast, so fluid,
That even I
who loved him
never caught his craft.
Oh, he was an old *******
But his last words still hold:
If you won't sleep with her,
better not think of her.
Yet I do.
It's like breathing
when you know you are going to die.
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 10:32 AM UTC
The Old *******
The old man lies in his tailor clothes,
Scorched by years, a single tear
Tracing the map of his cheek
He stares beyond the ceiling,
Beyond whatever truth he kept.
He was a learned talker,
A sly laugher,
A hard fighter
Honest in the way only liars learn to be.
Now he lies in a shallow bed of old stories,
And I marvel at how swift he moved through the world,
So fast, so fluid,
That even I
who loved him
never caught his craft.
Oh, he was an old *******
But his last words still hold:
If you won't sleep with her,
better not think of her.
Yet I do.
It's like breathing
when you know you are going to die.