A Sad Collection

[_bazilisk_]

If the door could stay half-closed
and I could just catch a glimpse
of the old man, frail and skinny, skull t-shirt on.
His words could stay hidden and personalities silent.
His glance would be pitiful,
His body, a sad collection.
I would throw him the bills, crisp and clean,
Collected from my youthful toil,
From my hatred and suffering and sweat.
Being alive is terrifying, sliding downward.