he could have been prince in another universe, they said–
but he was only himself in this one,
and it pains me, wounds me
to think of a crown never worn.
he should have been born years ago, they said;
childhood, in this age, was not his place.
and it pains me
it wounds me to think of adages
which never passed from his mind to his lips
(and oh, such lips)
he is older than his time, and destined in consequence:
to walk next to and never beside,
to be near but not quite with,
to touch, not always to feel;
what he is, they said,
what he could be, what he will become–
this world cannot handle such things.
and so instead he wanders,
in search of meanings that long ago
escaped the atmosphere of this place we call home (the earth mother,
her fingers cannot grasp even the threads of him),
in search of purpose,
in search of being–
he should not be here, they said.
he should not be here. he belongs in higher places
not governed by transparent sentience and sadism.
and it pains me/it wounds me to think
that i agree,