His knuckles were knots.
Round, tight bunches,
Tied roughly, taught
By the lessons of men;
Who seem only to brutalize
The beauty of the body.

His heart was chiseled.
Stone in the stead of flesh,
Fixed to a function. Grounded,
Not in hope, but the kiln’s capture.
Heat, the blistering rage, resolved
In all the hand’s heartless work.

His mind was not his. Home;
A house of helplessness. Now,
The mental mutiny made know.
Year's of yearning for youth, only
To forfeit all faith of the future,
In exchange for hard truth.