A Snapshot of a Man on Isolation Time

An old man withers

in a prison cell that cramps

the soul and the mind;

his face is a globe of scars,

latitude and longitude

inflicted by coarse attitudes;

his beard is wild, frighten cat hugging his face;

varicose veins shoot down his arm

fingers gnarl like branches of a tree

twisted by elements, yet

fragile and weaken, they secure

a crestfallen entanglement of frizz

from crashing onto a mottled floor,

with ashy color of a tempest

splashed in angry swirls;

his legs, wiry but strong

treaded the weathering of storms;

sitting on his cot

bare-chested and hunchback

his palms vice-gripping his head in prayer:

the only source of light

is the incandescent lamp

winking at him

in the corner of his cell.