The old man of yesteryear – Shourye Dwivedi

The Old Man of Yesteryear


Tick! Tock!

Sounds the clock.

It’s whispering voice

Does multiply, among the halls

It’s taunt and malice, divide and duplicate

To fill the hearts of all.

It’s empty predictability

Does resign the sane man to death.


Tick! Tock!

Yet the clock,

Is but an arm,

To a greater being,

Whose foul impassivity,

Whose obsidian eyes,

Whose very breath,

Is misery.


Tick! Tock!

An empty knock,

and at my door was he.

I saw him then.

I saw his face.

His fleeting image is clean’d not,

By even the beauties of nature.

For they reel at his sight,

And they melt at his touch,


Into beasts.


Tick! Tock!

An old man – Look!

Crumpled as a killed spider.

His uncouth bristles,

Two shriveled hands,

A valleyed brow,

And eyes empty.

His breath sojourned,

He lies in the street



Tick! Tock!

It takes him

Grasping with its talon’d hands

And the candle

Dimm’d to eternity

Quietly dissipates

And all is as it once was




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