The arm was no use whatsoever.
Try as he could, the old man would neither lift
nor steady things with his arm.
He kept them folded, rigid, on his chest.
So the parasite crept into the skull.
The skull was cramped, vague and convoluted.
He tried to understand the old man's thoughts.
They made no sense of time as they looped back and forth,
memories that had been fused with dreams,
visions blackened with fear, marred by sleep.
And he grew fearful here. Everything he touched crumbled.
Finally he rolled himself up into a ball and tried to hold himself
still as possible. What use had such a delicate thing?