She knew not of his inner being, she just did not understand.
He could read her, just from the delicate touch of a soft wanting hand.
He wanted her to know him, he craved it everyday.
He tried to pull her close, she didn’t understand and would move away.
Delicate was his soul, just love him and watch him grow,
Yet alas she did not see, she just did not know.
Words of laughter and love, sprinkle water on his growing self,
Opinion reigns, no growth, placed up away on a shelf.
His pen was his sword but all it did was bleed,
the boy who read her, but she knew not of his need.
© C Webber 2017