Like pills forgot, unlabelled on a shelf,
He changed, devolved into something less.
Unwittingly he fled, although such ideals
And aspirations he had defined as noble
Abided still, still bound within his imagined self.
But the outer shell, the carapace,
Had hardened so, that even acids formed
In a gastric well wherewith to etch, and burn,
Would not permit the inner contents out,
Nor those outside to be reassessed within.
So it was that he’d turned to stone. And while,
To all who touched, his physiognomy
Was marble smooth and finely wrought, one still could tell
This arid synecdoche of a man was stamped “Expired.”