Tayama

Jack

I walked him over the hills every Sunday

 

They called the boy funny, difficult, yet cute

 

His eyes bore into mine hearing his pain, yet mute

 

No past to ever speak of

 

Found during a trip alone, only He knows what he endured

 

To return to me in my loneliness

 

To find each other as we were both healing

 

By anothers pain

 

I lost him when he was 8

 

Let me pretend that it’s not too late, is it he who came back? Maybe its Jack...



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