Poems

55

you reach
struggle
it is obvious to all but the hurried
it leaks out in your eyes, your nose, the sheen of your skin

you hurt and you worry
but it is
all hidden, masked by the antique veneer of your youth

the face you wear is one of silent suffering
one of duty done
one of the lesser few
for all
and one
are more important, always, than you

and yours

but yours
is the body that bleeds
that aches
that shrieks with tensile pillars of too-much-too-soon
that gathers itself in some sort of mocking tumor,
a crest of swollen victory
alongside a crag of red-rimmed defeat

a sunken, shallow indentation

your weakness

my sorrow

your world