Litnet

An old naked man you are.
Epsom's star bearing humbling
scars.
An inconvenient reality in which we
succumb to willingly or unwillingly
in due time.
A cure to a sweet virus which
intoxicates its victims with a
servant's smile.
"Paint your picture."
An old man peering into my soul
with crimson webbed eyes, into a
soul bare, naked, real.
looking to show my blind eyes his
essence.
I tried so hard to look but my
creation was opaque.
Bright seducing colours of my own
swatch now smudged with the tears
of this old man. "I'm sorry sir, I
didn't mean to hurt me."
The sweet hand led me along a
road that tickled me ... it hurts now.
but I can't stop laughing, not now.