R.i.p

catefrances

perched upon a stool
his hair a dirty blonde thatch
coloured red
his body emaciated
from years of self abuse
clad in black
head down
his shoulders stooped
like a vulture disembodied
he surveys his domain
a vague gaze
hidden beneath
a determined furrowed brow
looking
waiting
waiting
waiting for what
he's not shaved for days
a wooden roasry hangs from his neck
when he opens his mouth
a familiar growl escapes
it is distinct
unmistakeable
he forgets his place
he swears
his friend reassures him
take your time
you've got plenty
no
no he hasn't.