Little Boy

At 37 the little boy was still just as scared

Of dying.


He had hardly noticed the changes in his face

Nor in the faces of his family.

He hadn’t seen the sky or the trees for years.

Eyes recoiled into their dark recesses.

Hardened fingertips ingrown.

A smile that tore at his split lips

Timidly he hurried between shadows

Ashamed of how this fear

Had disfigured him

Ruined him.


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