I was born a crabby, old man, the biting brush of early autumn a perfect match for this newborn and decrepit soul. 
Memories of moldered monochrome, thoughts as rugged and harsh as the fissured bark of the ancient oak trees, and a flare for donning the old checkered highland’s cap and an un-fused pipe redolent of walnut tobacco; 
such was I since the day I first cast these miry eyes unto the unwary world. I found beauty in the withered, poetry in the dead, and my soul in the smooth ripples slipping across those Sepia Pools of Melancholy.
I was born a cantankerous old man, limping along, nefarious, sometimes with a varnished cane, sometimes alone, snarling with a whirling eye of billiard white at any passerby that might happen near. I had crooked teeth to accent trench coats and London Town hats still redolent of acrid cigars. When I flashed those serrated masticators with all my fury, even the bravest squirrels darted for safer ground. What passion I had for instilling terror in my gnarly ways, askew, stomping along those vacant, black and white streets veined with sniveling cracks.
But somewhere along this old man’s crawl through this spare score and some years, I found my way to the ocean, and there, upon that strumming shore, I discovered acoustic melody, and new forms of poetry, and along the swash zone of shattered scallop shells glinting pink and lavender, the waves encasing this craggy visage with the sweet kiss of brine, I became young for the first time.
Dull dysthymia
A Day in the Brine 