If he felt anything coming back here
It certainly isn't written on his face
Or that stupid journal his therapist gave him

He stand with white tight lips
And eyes which at first glance are
Balanced on the wooden door

But I'm guessing his past
Has wrapped itself around his soul
Like unforgiving vines strangling the oak tree
In his old front yard

The wind pierces deep to my bones
All I want to do is leave
Take him miles and miles away

Count the times I desperately wished
My hands could wipe away the gashes
That flow down his back
As jagged strings of bleeding hearts

I imagine taking a match and gasoline
Torch the whole house down in one go
But I'm afraid it would burn him too

I can't figure out what the hell is going on
Behind his elusive presence of mist, smoke,
And weeds you pull from your garden

Maybe if I had gotten to him
Before The Man told him
All he would ever be was a weed

A small, shriveled, annoyance
In a garden of lush crimson roses
Whose thorns turned out to be
Greater than their petals.