since He was a little boy,
a somber maturity lurked beneath Him,
perpetually depressed yet rarely dysfunctional,
He perceived joy unlike
the unadulterated fantasies of his peers.
He never knew happiness without pain following
close behind, He never knew pleasure without
loss dragging her red high-heels ever closer to His heart
a wintered hurt it was seeing their tear
streaked faces lying lugubriously like litter
as good as dead:
still walking, wanting, worldly, but absent.
withdrawn from reality they plagued Him
with haunting memories of pain, rage, anger, fear.
all He knows is empty pleasure, perverted desire, reluctant comfort
in cold arms, success here, failure there until all that is left
resembles a house full of nothing, a decaying heart.
His leaves turn as fertile heat escapes.
only now on this april evening does Love find him.
his heart hammers, hitting harder, now the Pain is Joy.
warm death grips his body, his only desire
since he was a little boy