You wait by his bed long into the night

To watch, to wonder, to covet him there.

You sit and share in his evening prayer,

As if the words do not incite

Hatred, of the bitterest sort,

An anger that boils under the skin,

A longing that is dipped in sin.

But him—he is your last resort,

Your chance to walk amid grasses green,

To be, to love, to hate, be free,

To lay among the earth's debris.

He is a wonder, a beauty that remains unseen.

Broken, even, he is a thing of perfection,

A doll made of glass that is ready to shatter

To a million pieces, too sharp to matter,

And for this you almost want protection

To shield him from the endless hurts,

To close his eyes to the pain of this place;

This beautiful hell that lives in disgrace.

Mankind is cruel, unjust and perverse.

But he is a thing of perfection,

A rose to rise above the ash,

A ruby helpless beneath the trash.

He deserves the deepest affection,

Because he—he is a thing of perfection.