I never noticed it before
That look upon his face
Not really mad or even sore
I now know it’s disgrace
The sense of failure that he hid
Despite achieving much
He sealed his lips and would forbid
To share another’s touch.
So are we destined every day
To wander in a crowd
Of wounded souls who’d rather slay
Themselves than to be proud.
April 9 2023
Acantholimon 