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Old Man Whither
Old man Whither…
The chair with a rickety rock…
He sits, swift with movement not…
He holds in hand, the trigger with a plot…
You hear the fancy clocks sound…
Tick Tock…
Tick Tock…
The movement grows closer…
Slowly seeking in…
The chime of the fancy clock…
Its Whither’s time to end…
The barrel is now perfect…
Aligned with his lonely chin…
Pull the sound slightly…
Pause…
Hesitant to snap the wind…
Whither kneels his head in shame…
“I cant do it!” he says, wanting to cower…
The blur is growing nearer, and closer…
Drowning down, dead as a nail…
Whither now, beginning to care…
“You know this place…”
Said the timid liquid in a dare…
Whither did not answer…
His reality, beginning to tare…
Soulless he sleeps…
Old Whither went forth…
Ventured on to a indescribable mention…
The white room was waiting…
The white room was bold…
Whither ...
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