Look at you.
I am getting old.
All this marks on your body.
Confirmation of kills, a campaign of return and exits,
not to forget my creation, my artificiality and state of alienation.
I am growing old.
Perceiving the weakness of flesh.
Scarred. Signs of agony, I never owned,
but borrowed, to dissect the menace of humiliation.
Marks of setbacks. Written in blood on blood,
and always be,
in the razor-thin dark, to seal the light beneath.
Look at you.
With your hairy belly, your crooked posture.
The underwear, worn out, shed its fit.
The legs, finely spun.
Your feet, with a flip flopped smile of the sun on the back.
Look at you.
Through a feverish gaze, blurring boundaries, red-necked.
Emptiness.
Sadness.
Solitude.
Angst-ridden.
Awareness-driven.
Love-jaded.
Look at you.
You, who is still here.