empty
Empty
Silent voices screaming out
Tomblike stillness shrouds his shouts
That child within who cries and pouts
But is not heard and hence must doubt
That what he needs will ever be
Of interest, or that his pleas
Will find soft breast, or that he’ll see,
Like all the rest, himself … set free.
And so the part of him that wants
Is buried deep, and deeply haunts
Him in his sleep, and tests and taunts
Him, and he weeps for love so daunt-
Ing, guarded, locked, in gray stone cell –
Affection craved. And thus he yells
Down dark, depraved and endless well.
His living grave. His private hell.
These shrill sharp whispers in his head
That bang against his walls of dread
Have left him numb, of all life bled
Shrieking fears best left unsaid
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