Choices in the Museum

The old man shuffled next to me in the museum.
His shoes were scuffed.
His skin was parchment thin
and his lips had no color,
unlike his eyes, bright and vivid.

“Love” he said.
“Hate.
Fear.

You can fight them.
Flee
or surrender.

Each has its own consequences.
Each has its own rewards.”

And he shuffled off, leaving me wondering
how he knew.

About this poem. 

Don’t ask me where this one came from. It just came.

Tom