The Staring Man

A staring man is staring at me,
Who's shoulders does not weigh any sadness or glee.
Who's eyes are wide, and staring at me.
His heart does not sit or stand or float,
Who's soul does not sink like a sub or rise like boats.
Who's eyes will grab, and staring at me.
The book of his mind is closed and shut,
Who's key is buried and blends in with his cut.
Who's eyes will pierce, and staring at me.
His posture is that of a tree,
Who's fingers are locked even though they are free.
I don't like him.
He doesn't blink, he doesn't think.
I wish he would go away, rot or decay.
Yet his eyes are wide, and staring at me.