And He Had Old Man Eyes

A boy, barely eighteen,
Deep rancid thoughts plagued his brain, they fester,
They merely kept him thinking of all that is painful.
Harsh night would often blow past his window,
To tell him of his failure.
The mournful nightly chirping of crickets; familiar and vivid,
He knew their harmless intentions,
Yet ambiguity settled and drank from his stream
and the orchestra of their violins whispered their true sad meaning.
Schoolmates poked and prodded,
His past sealed tight in his clenched bloody fist.
He never raised his hand or spoke of much,
His lips barely parted,
For fear that they may not see each other again.
His ears were open too wide,
The sound muffled by the Chaos within.
Scents played with him; nostalgia,
Pain never seemed to cease.
And He Had Old Man Eyes,
Barely eighteen, a boy.