he is lingua franca.

he sits as a statue in a chair, set like cement, with his eyes and mouth poking through, still living. eyes smile ecstatic, endlessly and his mouth rests beneath, mimicking their movements. he sits fearless in the eyes of ghosts and apparitions, with no words just courageously glittering eyes, endlessly. staring through the being of demons, made ashes and memories soon to be forgotten. sitting with a delicate imperiousness, he is a good and feared king. his voice a furiously unrelenting battalion, an effortless roar, the lingua franca. hair wiry, sparse, spanning the width of his head like seven silver arches standing forever. he is old, face sunken and body withered. he is weak and he is strong. stronger everyday and everyday closer.