A man of forty. Forty years the child. <br />His eyes don't see me but his mother. <br />His past. And like a child he wanders <br />Clean through the tunnels of his time. <br />And lost logic, and found regret. <br />His history plays inside his eyes, <br />and his fingers play with his pain, <br />He doesn't play with logic. Logic <br />Can't be found in this child's fate. <br />And like a mother I care for him. <br />But I don't know him- He seems to know me <br />And cannot smile. His eyes only drift <br />From my lips, to his mother's hair; <br />And without a word, he reveals his wrists. <br />His manly wrists with tiny spots of pain. <br />If I could I would kiss his wrists. <br />If I had half the courage to face his pain.<br /><br />Masiela Lusha<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-man-of-forty/
