Tears make their way down his face
while in solitude he trembles,
having been deemed ‘other’, the boy
was excluded from the human experience.
Something runs through him, a questioning
of that admiration for adults he was imbued with,
those adults who ran this world, those words were theirs.
At all times, there is a face wet with tears, somewhere.
Tears make their way down his sister’s face,
she places her head on his shoulder, a ready pillow.
The tears and the trembling have scarcely subsided.
The cycle of demarcation must end,
consolation is not consolation.