He lives in a world only he knows--
a world of others' thrown-asides.
A dented pot with no handle
is a perfectly good pot,
and to find it is to find treasure.

He is a child in the body of a man,
for he never was a real child.
Real children are loved, not abandoned.
Real children are cradled, not raped.
Real children can trust. He cannot.

He does the best he can,
and he keeps his dreams
in hidden places no one can find.
They are all he has
that cannot be taken from him.

"I can survive," he says
with the pride of one who has
survived too much.
But survival is a dark forest
and he cannot see the sky.