If in the corner he cries,
with his trembling hands
hands shying his cold eyes
he has swallowed too many glasses
of solitary pride.
What is pride worth
if you must cry alone?
What is pride worth
if you haven't anyone to console
at home?
If he sits
upon ashes and black lumber,
reminders of his burned home...
If he feeds off his hunger
for he dares not ask for a hand...
I wonder:
Why he still wears his pride
like a heavy burden.
Why not leave the realm of pride,
when pride is only hurting:
hurting himself
and anyone
anyone else
he turns away.
In the corner he cries,
In the dark of his mind,
In lonliness he lies
behind trembling hands
he shies...
with this veil of pride
he shall never realize:
Pride is worth nothing
nothing at all,
when pride becomes
becomes a brick wall.
© Loretta Hanscome
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