From the way he walked,
His bent shoulders, swaying his hands back and forth as if not to his own accord,
His eyes glued to the grounds as if looking for a spot he wouldn’t want to miss,
Too weak were his legs to trek him down the dusty cracked paths he followed, the sun above his head too harsh to not take it’s rays off his weak body.
He looked tired. He looked drained.
Maybe of a home full of unending chaos and cries,
Or rather an over the edge supposed love of his life he tried to keep but slipped right through his weak fingers,
Maybe he was tired of walking along the streets scouring for a piece to down down his throat and live the night, then it sunk in that maybe he was not at all tired of the world but himself,
Of the demons he has been fighting against all his life and never won but ended up worn, The demon of self spitefulness, of self-denial and self hate.
It sunk in that this boy was tired of holding his frame together with every ounce of hope and strength he had,
And as the birds flew in patterns right above his head,
Somehow I hoped he’d glance at them and keep flapping his wings just like the birds did,
But he didn’t,
He never held his head up to watch the sky, and I thought maybe to him it was more of mockery than heavenly.
I watched as the dark swallowed his shadows and all he left was unanswered questions and assumption answers,
He remained a mystery!