He’d cared when others hadn’t, 

Cared about what he’d seen as beautiful, fun, in need. 

He’d cared about the inside, caring not at all about concerns

That drove others away in shallow deed, 

The trivialities of the flesh, marked with deep striations from the past, 

He had not cared about any of that. 

He’d cared about a future, about similarities, about that unspoken draw to last,

And he’d cared enough to stop caring when the illusion fell apart, 

Tucked it away into the past. 

There were few if any other who would have cared at all,

And he should have known why from the start. 

But all it reaped him was enmity, defamation, and a damaged heart, 

And now all he cared about was living day to day until his last.

He’d cared when likely no one else would have in earnest, 

And it’d left him cold and jaded.