Account of the Cradling Man

Mannerisms;
There are no mannerisms.
A man sits scrunched against himself
In the corner of a room, blindingly dark.
He cradles,
Rocking back
And forth,
Back and forth.
He is shivering from his own demise;
He recognizes his future, grim it is.

Essence;
There is no essence.
His face is expressionless
And he is a savage.
Pressed against a wall,
There is nothing much he can fix
In the meaningless life he lives.
He cradles,
Rocking back and forth,
Back
And forth.

Thoughts;
There are no thoughts.
He does not have a mind to think
Nor a heart to feel.
He has been cursed with a demise
Inescapable.
He cradles,
Rocking back
And forth,
Back and forth.
He is crushed by the simplicity
Of being blinded by darkness.

Excuses;
There are none.
A man is sprawled, defeated;
His corpse lies on the floor.
Cradling;
There is no cradling,
No rocking back
And forth.
The man is dead.

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