In the theatre of my mind
there on the screen
I see the image of a man,

broad shoulders hanging limp,
hands to weak to raise high
enough to wipe the tears
from his lonely eyes,
a broken back broken again

There behind the walls,
though they incarcerate,
its his torments
in his shell
that perturb
and call out.
He longs, wales, and
mourns
their touches.

Those angelic young faces,
framed forever in his memories;
chastened him from loving freely,
even had he been imposing.

They so vainly depended on his love

And out of touch,
he touches the cold floors,
the heartless walls,
sniffs the hostile airs,
and pouts his sorrow out.

Always a strong, resilient, bold titan;
his tears were nonetheless salty.