No longer young

No longer young

Never beautiful

No pretty pictures

To tear at the heart

Just a middle aged man

With all the privilege

That unasked for gift affords.

When in truth

It seems

We see suffering

As the province of children

And mothers,

Wives and lovers, broken,

Struck by the hand of a man’s

Blind ambition,

Brutish strength,

What of the gentle man,

With the soft voice.

The poet and the artist

The father, the lover

The keeper of his brother,

Where is his place

In the huddle

Of loving souls.

The carers and givers

Who understand

Want to lend a helping hand

Stop a while,

Listen and appreciate

The struggle

To contain the nameless

Fear that haunts us all.

When who we are

Is what we love

And we can do

So very little

To protect it.

When the door is closed

And the bed lies cold

The breath

Sucked right out

It matters not

Your gender,

What you look like

On page or screen,

The pain you feel is real.

And when the world

Is indifferent

To all but those

Who have yet to live

Or have the power

To capture hearts

In the telling of a story

Who is left to listen

Who will shed a tear

And what

Will become of you and me then…