Our Child

Our Child

Someone is here, and I may look and 

 imagine the child self. 

It's often quite easy to do. He 

 or she is plainly here as well, 

Living under the adult-like frame 

 and face, but the eyes and 

Limbs give it all away: 

 hurts never really understood, with 

Such acrid breathless tears 

 secreted away many many times. 

I know that child too well, 

 I'm so very sorry, for all of us. 

The child still sits there sulking 

 through those narrow age-red eyes. 

Beaten and locked out, weeping, 

 at doors of stone-hewn faces. 

The Grown One is still this 

 child as well, wishing to come out: 

He's guarded, despised, and tired. 

 So tired. She aches for life. 

Giving up is not yet death, but 

 sad awaiting broken joy to cease. 

(4/28/2009)