Drifting with the wind on a dusty Monday morning is an old man with days far spent, and night, dangerously near. Strolling down the avenue, with trees saluting his age, the wind caressing his grace and the earth adjusting for his fade.
He hangs his worn pouch of ages which he has no shame. His footgear threadbare but he cared less. Labouring to breathe, and a face full of regret, he cursed every step of the way. Blaming his troubles on his younger half who failed to make hay when due.
The laments were on and on and seemed he was walkie-talkie to death, begging for a dim. He cursed into the wind routinely to the shovelling of his feet in the sand and his struggle to redeem it. He called on death to come sweep him away and cast him to hell, rather than leave him to the barren Earth that bore no hope for him than sap his energy by every laboured breath.
Suddenly, his walking aid gave way. He had dipped it in a crack within the earth, distracted by what seems to be the death he has been longing for.
His fall was not as dignified as expected as he didn’t go down without a fight.
He absorbed the shock of the give with unexpected agility. Rocking here and there fighting for a stand, begging his feet not to fall for gravity. scooping the innocent emptiness of the air for something to hold on to as he jabbered and staggered. As intense as described, he danced with death with the audience who know him so well, astounded as to how hard a fight he’d give against the death he wants so bad.
The old man rose from his fall, picked up his third leg, sluggishly let the Earth off his linen as if apologetic for the taunt, and picked up pace away from the stupefied audience. His lust for death exenterated from his mind, body and soul in the whip of a lamb’s tail.