The man with
the granite hat,
so stubborn
in his ways,
no interest
in anything and
unwilling to
change.
So encased
is he,
that even
the Sun he will
not see. In
his obstinance
he’ll miss
even the slightest glee.
His face is
curled in a stiff, muted
smirk, like
he knows better about
life and
stuff. And yet there’s nothing
that he has
to say, nothing new anyway.
No words can
penetrate the hard
case shell,
no sound can escape
his self-managed
hell. Arms folded
across his
chest, never mind the rest.
His ears, unable
to hear, from
under the
heavy hat he wears,
not a whisper
or shout will he
ever let out.
Stone stiff
he lies, unresponsive
to anyone’s
cries. No plea heard,
no wish
granted, no desire to heal,
no genial politeness
ever mentioned.
There he is,
the man in the granite hat,
up on the
hill, past the gates, near the
weeping
willow and the old stone bench,
the path
overgrown with weeds and debris.
That old Son
of a Bitch, wicked and rotten,
no semblance
of a soul, no redemption planned,
he’ll fade
into the Earth as he fades into
history; not
as he wanted, but how he’ll be.
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