His eyes bleed from all the years he has held back his tears.
He wants to turn back the hands on life’s clock
But his hands have been weathered by verbal atrophia
From those who have time and time again whipped his soul
With self claimed expertise that has bathed him in salt puddles
Of fear that are rumoured to heal but eat up the left over
Manly confidence that his soul tries to suckle from for survival.
Frank Malaba™ © 2012