Poor Child


The poor child's face was shockingly severe.
His jaw jutted out unnaturally
And a look of stubborn harshness
Was etched into lips that neither smiled nor frowned.
His head was up;
Held up with the confidence only known
By those who have known nothing but danger
And therfore fear nothing but weakness.
His eyebrows were furrowed
And his eyes were too serious for a child.
They looked as though they could not cry,
And there was no shine.
With his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans;
He moved lifelessly but with purpose.
Not a bone in his body moved in freedom.
He was not running and he was not walking,
His legs moved back and forth
Like a mechanism.
Even when the siren rang,
His movements did not quicken
And his face did not flinch;
Which is how I knew that this poor child
Knew nothing but war.

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