
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.
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