He sees the other children play,
Can’t bring himself to look away,
Nor try to join this unknown art
Though longs for it with all his heart.
In time, they will notice him too:
This boy, who’s not sure what to do
Who’ll become product of their scorn,
Dreams of belonging left to mourn.
Their words he tries correcting now
For he cannot understand how
Their hearts would want to wound as such
This soul, which they could never touch.
And yet each word, cast as a stone,
Assures him more just how alone
He really is till detached—cold,
Lips purse, truths to ever withhold.
But still, he faces straight ahead,
Eyes glazed over, ambition dead.
In plain sight he hides through the years—
Will till the day he disappears.
The things he sees: love, joy, heartache…
A billion things he can't partake
Of, yet somehow feels each so deep
The devil smiles, and angels weep.
More felt, in a life standing still
Than those reaching and longing will
Ever imagine, a single prize
The most seen through myopic eyes.
Endeavors of a world too blind
To see past the wants of each mind.
They think, they plan, they build, they fall.
They live one life, he lives them all…
…and could have shown them.
[This message has been edited by Michael (06-17-2017 01:18 PM).]