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Morbidity

on November 15, 2020

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Death

Death - Slave to the Grind

Image by Patty Jansen from Pixabay

Death Life Morbid Poem Poetry Slave to the Grind

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Blind as a Bat

He knew the alarm had gone of thrice. It was 14:18 and he had to make it to the interview, half an hour away, in a little over forty minutes. The July sun had warmed his skin. When he opened his eyes he figured he was still groggy from last night’s Long Islands. On his feet, rubbing his eyes, walking to the bathroom, nothing was a haze. He just couldn’t see. Despite not seeing, he knew exactly where he had to go, not a foot out of place, almost as if he’d developed a new complementary sense. Making it to the interview with three minutes to spare, he felt he was at the wrong place. He left, sat under a tree tucked in a corner for the following few hours, staring into space, although, not really. The sun began to set just after 19:00 and this is when his vision started to get blurry. By the time it was dark, he could see everything as it was meant to be seen, and a feeling of hopelessness started creeping in. With the month just having begun, and owing to his generous brother, he walked...

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