Eyes of an eighty year old at the age of eight It’s been eighty four years Looking for a forty year old who saw a flicker of the eyes Seeing me as a ‘weirdo’ Greedily, hungrily wanting, momentarily, another to carry the weight . . Never speaking to them Getting close, but staring At the age of four Eyes craving Body curled up Never speaking but always telling stories Hands reach out to touch me I couldn’t want any more . . Wasn’t allowed Couldn’t be reached Did a hand ever want to reach out? Holding me, was too much hoping Beyond probability. . . Selfish in my longing The writer in the two year old Intense loathing The private secret - and a me that could never speak
It wasn’t me (old soul)
Not here. Willow weeping poem. It’s my job to see the wood for the trees..
