I am not sure when the Anger first whispered to him
or how he treated it then
or when it became his companion and then his friend

or when it took possession of him and crowded the rest of us out of his life

But the Anger owns him now and sold shares of his life
to paranoia and fear and hopelessness at ever being loved
or loving…

He was a good kid and would be a good man
                      but for his master that compels
his rage and distrust of the ones who love him

And I wonder if he will ever find the freedom he thinks he gains by pushing us away

When from this mortal place I go
To lie beneath Time's silent snows
And when my sacred name is but
A broken phase of verbal rust
What matter then that I had lived or laughed or died?

Yet if there is one heart who says
"He touched me as he passed my way.
He shared his smile and loving arms;
When I was cold he kept me warm."
Then your gentle memory will justify my life.