The weight of generations Stuttered his steps-- Young legs, agile mind, An intimidation To new, unsung conversations. But in small moments of deeply anchored words and acts of casual kindness, The softness of his heart was shown underneath. His hands fidgeted with a knife Constantly, a butterfly Flittering through his fingers-- was that the speed of his thoughts? What did he think, when he wandered Through creeks of Godβs creation? He kept his hair long, as if afraid to release the past, But he clearly showcased The Lordβs word on his back, deaf To the rebuking voices. Fluent in rolling jests, but also Drawing wisdom as if from the earth, I thought he was talking to me. . . One time. . . but I can never seem To look people in the eyes. Who is he, Lord?