At 37 the little boy was still just as scared
Of dying.
Haunted
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.
Constant Voice 