Torpor by Peter Gidlund
Look outside,
something's not right.
A lack of white.
Everything is stolen.
Looking upward to the ground.
Lock outside. Something's inside.
The old man is riding
down his grocery list,
trying to outrace
specters and reavers.
His senility is his intuition,
never trusting, never knowing.
A sort of ancient instinct,
of resorting to the lowest
common denominator.
He is always re-evaluating
his situation, his predicament,
seeking to gain new insight.
He scans his plane, his mind,
looking for things out of sight.
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