There is a kind of thing in some
that never relinquishes.
From the first, it stirs in tiny, waving fists
and fingers –
a yearning to connect... to understand, communicate...
to live a larger life.
And every stimulus that strays within gurgling, cooing grasp
is grappled with an eagerness –
tasted, experimented with,
brought close to wondering, unfocussed eyes
and most in witnessing the growing urge approve what it proposes –
support, protect, foster –
give all they have the means to offer
and if they have little, well-wish without reserve.

Yet,
there is a thing in some
insulted that the light of another
overshadows them, strives to extinguish.
It is a mean Iago-urge
to destroy what can never be there's
and so, gleefully murders.

You were one of those children
who had no thought of bushelling,
you never courted acceptance,
spoke truth without weighing consequence,
judged others by everything,
except lying appearance,
protected the weak, upheld the innocent –
you were that rare thing – all
that becomes
a man.

There is a kind of thing in some
that will never relinquish
a kind of light nothing can extinguish.

They never broke you, they never won.

What finer epithet is there than that?