Before the brink

Gleam then gloom

He stares off at nothing in particular; blank faced and lonely in his room.

The leaves fall cyclic and repetitive, nothing new this autumn year will come.

A familiar place he rests his head, figuratively he sucks his thumb, longing.

Absent comfort,

Bathed in cold,

There's a warm soft centre scared to grow bold.

Defensive demeaner, kitted in armour,

A pretence defending the unsure core.

A call for help and a steep mountain cliff aren't so different after all.