Brash, loud, boisterous and always on the go, his loneliness is palpable to me.
He shows the world a public face; but beneath the mask I know the private grief that no one else can see.

This private man entombs himself within a cell of his own making; cold and bleak
He hurts and bleeds and suffers in his private hell. A pain that screams but will not speak.

He knows of the love, the friendship and support but it rarely is returned.
Except in a manner indirectly, a look, rapport, a flash of friendship quickly burned

This son trusts no-one with his love; not me nor his friends or family.

As for myself, his presence in my life is my grace.
I ask no more for I too need my space.