What fragile matter of woman or man can slip into their head and, seeing red over the world, blue a face without remorse?
What man or woman can think so little of their selves and less yet of her or him or they that nothing quells the fear inside but blind fists thrown against the world?
What fateful tale of tragic pain twisted in lumps so hard, so cold, never unwound and never told, brings them here, brutal, violent where love should be?
They throw their angst where only touch, soft, loving, pure, fingers of gold, should ever land into caress.
And yet they love, they say. They love within their pain turned into fear grown into angst.
They are but the boys and girls of old, ungrown and unresolved. Untold, their tales of pain never could find resolution.
Alone in pain, time-hardened clay, clouded eyes of childhoods past but never gone, they brewed too long in violence splashed across their youths.
But owning is not loving! Hitting is not caring! If only they knew, were told, were shown when time molded the soft earth of their hearts.
Only ears of compassion lent to those screams seldom heard can water down the calloused clay, unwind the shroud too tightly wrapped around the heart, and free the hurt boiling inside.
Only the telling of those tales can unclench fists into soft hands, transform shouts into whispers, and break the chain that binds children past to children grown to children come.