The silent words he didn’t say
the quiet shout he’d not relay
are ringing loudly in my ears,
and how I long to dry those tears.
Yet still I’m me, not what he needs.
Though I may mend him when he bleeds
another hand and other lips
must help him when he falls and trips.
I’ll help him up, reset the bone,
but when he stands, he stands alone
and holds his tears with grim façade—
a manly spectacle I laud—
but mannish still, only a child;
and by his heart’s desire reviled.
Only a Child
Tale Told 