Ode to the Wheelchair Boy



He is a boy between two worlds:
Of ours
and of his own.
He lacks the conviction to thrive in either
And –neither– is his home.

His mind belays
In the room he keeps
And within locked shadows
hidden deep,
He is a weaver
of windy words
Which through his thoughts
do blow,
For never was there a place he made
His access couldn’t go.

How can the boy
Have love for a land
When he is stuck in a chair?
And what good is family
That by his hand is made
Without a drop of life or air?

So in a wooden room stays he
With light and food
And a family at call,
Where he lives
and breathes
and sleeps
and eats
And owns all from wall to wall.

Not enough is this
To pass idle hours away,
With stories beaming
dreaming
and streaming
Though his mind—

Thus creating and writing is a
Constant struggle to find
A way into one or the other,
Between the love of oneself
And the love of another,
Because
He is a boy between two worlds.

02/12/2007

Posted on 02/12/2007
Copyright © 2026 Jason Hannigan