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.”