He sits, staring into the dusky haze of the dying day. Coldness creeps in the room as the monotonous ticking of the clock echoes around the loneliness. He shivers. His skin, now paper thin and speckled in old bruises, is a stark reminder to his existence. Yet still, his heart beats.
The old man runs his shakey yellowing brittle nail fingers through his thinning grey matted hair. The damp wooden door creaks as the wind, angry and unforgiving, continues to knock on the weakened timber, summoning him to embrace life itself.
Outside, trees sway to the mesmeric dance of the wind, its ritual, hypnotizing to his weary eyes. He tries to stand, knees creaking and groaning under protest buckle beneath him. Isolation grips him by the hand as a single tear meanders down his unshaven cheek, life passed him by.
I'm Paddy, I'm 42 and I hail from Dublin, Ireland. I've been writing on and off for twenty plus years and I've had several poems published in various anthologies. I also write novels, my specialist genre is horror.