He scatters words as breadcrumbs:
each are a little, loving clue.
They’re the only way which he can
capture what he longs to say to you.
He sits silent in his wheelchair
while you walk away above.
His eyes take in your beauty,
beating heart hurts from love.
His limp legs sit shaking,
he wishes he could stand.
Walk with you in sunlight,
side-by-side take your hand.
If you knew how he loved you,
well, would you even care?
Or would you struggle, seeing not
the man due to the chair?
His heart, his legs are heavy,
can you tell what he feels?
Too afraid to speak, hear shriek
of rusty steel chair wheels.
His head perhaps is handsome,
his heart perhaps is pure.
Maybe if you saw him,
you’d see something to adore?
Yet you seem too embarrassed
to look him in his face.
Is it due to his wheelchair
which distracts human grace?
Perhaps tomorrow you’ll notice?
Perhaps perchance he’ll speak?
Perhaps someday he may find words
to move, bring blush to cheek?
Maybe he’s the answer,
a love strong, pure & true?
Yet you don’t really see him…
…do you?
Copyright © 2016 Philip Craddock. All rights reserved.
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