upon his eyes, i read in the reflection his story
i see the memories, the fearful nights, the noisy mornings
and the nights worth of words appear on his skin as he shivers under my living touch
he isn't friends with the wicked, he's been taken hostage by it
he's not cold, not ruthless,
only perceived this way
by those whose heads live in the luscious clouds of the heavens
while his mind is rooted in the earth
and his eyes
they're empty, pleading, hoping, yet accepting
his pools of polluted oceans hold more trauma than others
and it takes one to know one
©L.F.
trauma shapes you, but does not have to define you.
