he held the sun
cupped in his hands
peers into a hole
made for gazing upon it
its heat
is burning
blister on his hands
all of his life
now smells
of burning flesh

the thinker
thinks away his time
pondering his oblivion
now covered
in sliver hairs
running rapid like sliver foxes

wishing he held
in his hands
something
a little more smoother
more soothing

now that his eyes can no longer see
and his hands can no longer feel