- Books, Literature, and Writing
I still remember his eyes
staring up at me from his wheelchair
like huge beacons of despair
rising from his twisted limbs.
There was a hunger there,
for all that I represented
in his crippled view,
strutting by on two strong legs,
my arms carrying books he could
never hold, let alone understand.
Love's sweet possibilities, girls to caress,
worlds to explore and such a bright future,
while he remained just a gargoyle of flesh
strapped to a leather and chrome throne,
that was his tiny kingdom for life.
A thin strand of drool,
graced his bone dry lips,
unable to even quench his own thirst,
he sat waiting for his caretaker,
at lunchtime outside a classroom,
at the school I once attended.
I don't know what became
of that unfortunate young man,
who was born outside the norm,
and forced to dwell amidst the well,
by parents wanting him to have
what all his peers enjoyed
they failed to see that he would be
a boy fate left with just a fork
in a world that peddled soup.
I wish I could have offered him,
the tastes of life I savored,
but I walked on a different plane,
and all his hopes were grounded,
on four wheels that creaked despair.