The Man Who Never Saw the Shine
He moves through rooms without a flourish, slow,
His posture easy, head held slightly low.
He catches glances that he doesn’t seek,
A kind of quiet wisdom on his cheek.
The silver tracing through his dark, curled hair
Is simply aging that he doesn’t care
To fight or frame—it merely is the truth,
Unaware it lends a luster to his youth.
The women watch him when he stops to speak,
A certain gravity, both strong and meek.
He hears their laughter, but he thinks it’s aimed
At something witty that the speaker claimed,
Never once assuming that the sudden flush,
The lowered eyes, the conversational rush,
Are merely mirrors of the charm he wears,
A handsome shell that carries all his cares.
When he looks inward, all he sees is effort,
The early mornings, struggles for self-comfort.
He finds the flaws, the wrinkles, and the scars,
The tiny battles fought beneath the stars.
He’s grateful for the health and strength he keeps,
But beauty’s pedestal is where he never sleeps.
His sense of self is built on work and trust,
Not on the fleeting currency of lust.
He thinks of "attractive" as a separate space,
Reserved for movie stars, for perfect grace.
If compliments arrive, he shifts and waits,
Dismissing them as pleasant social baits,
A kindness offered, nothing to receive
As genuine belief he can achieve
That high esteem the world places on looks,
He's much more comfortable with dusty books.
Yet, this humility, this simple lack
Of ego standing on the beaten track,
Adds to the portrait that the others draw.
His genuine surprise, without a flaw
Of vanity, becomes the final seal—
The truest magnet in his quiet appeal.
He walks in shadow, letting others shine,
Not knowing that his own light is divine.
And so he stands, a mystery complete,
A blend of peppered wisdom, strong and sweet.
A kind of man who never can possess
The easy confidence of loveliness,
Because he's focused on the world he serves,
Unconscious of the admiration he preserves.
The most attractive thing about his face,
Is the sweet burden of his humble grace.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 11:39 AM UTC
The Man Who Never Saw the Shine
He moves through rooms without a flourish, slow,
His posture easy, head held slightly low.
He catches glances that he doesn’t seek,
A kind of quiet wisdom on his cheek.
The silver tracing through his dark, curled hair
Is simply aging that he doesn’t care
To fight or frame—it merely is the truth,
Unaware it lends a luster to his youth.
The women watch him when he stops to speak,
A certain gravity, both strong and meek.
He hears their laughter, but he thinks it’s aimed
At something witty that the speaker claimed,
Never once assuming that the sudden flush,
The lowered eyes, the conversational rush,
Are merely mirrors of the charm he wears,
A handsome shell that carries all his cares.
When he looks inward, all he sees is effort,
The early mornings, struggles for self-comfort.
He finds the flaws, the wrinkles, and the scars,
The tiny battles fought beneath the stars.
He’s grateful for the health and strength he keeps,
But beauty’s pedestal is where he never sleeps.
His sense of self is built on work and trust,
Not on the fleeting currency of lust.
He thinks of "attractive" as a separate space,
Reserved for movie stars, for perfect grace.
If compliments arrive, he shifts and waits,
Dismissing them as pleasant social baits,
A kindness offered, nothing to receive
As genuine belief he can achieve
That high esteem the world places on looks,
He's much more comfortable with dusty books.
Yet, this humility, this simple lack
Of ego standing on the beaten track,
Adds to the portrait that the others draw.
His genuine surprise, without a flaw
Of vanity, becomes the final seal—
The truest magnet in his quiet appeal.
He walks in shadow, letting others shine,
Not knowing that his own light is divine.
And so he stands, a mystery complete,
A blend of peppered wisdom, strong and sweet.
A kind of man who never can possess
The easy confidence of loveliness,
Because he's focused on the world he serves,
Unconscious of the admiration he preserves.
The most attractive thing about his face,
Is the sweet burden of his humble grace.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
As a child my dad always put me down, abused me in every way possible. He always said I was ugly and would never make it.
This is fir you, my fellow poem writing friends.
Your beautiful and your poems help me through my day.
I genuinely love you all.
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