written By
The
shrinking man
leaves light
at the door,
novels unread
beautifully written.
Blackness,
like oil,
oozes
and envelopes
the
shrinking man.
A slippery cocoon
to roll away time
(It’s all he’s got).
Dust crusts
the surface,
crunching
as it rolls
to a destination unknown.
Who will see
the shrinking man?
Few.
