was it part of his childhood
that kept him from walking with the few
people that you connect with
part of the problem
his stubborn fixation
on a lonely world alone
as outstretched arm occasionally offered
the olive branches
the grateful would snap off
she offered a world of love
yet rejected
by a crusade
part of childhood, had made him
the saddened form
the hulk of stone born
in a world his first cries rejected
even the midwife
apparently protested
when greeted with his first expression frown
always in the grip of a winter inside
a hidden heart of love
down
as though broken,  a picture tortured
he hung in a gallery
and he stared
to the pavement
and he walks as though a shy boy
but when prodded with the rights words
seemed to liven up, to sparkle
as though a chemical concoction
a top a Bunsen’s flame
the flickers of hope
in the broken smile
soon to falter, fleeting, fumbles awkward
in the presence of woman
testing every lovers patience
how long can they stand
all his complications
its no as though they are not trying
but when inside a boy is dying
they leave him
the wrong side of his thirties