Real Men

by The Shadowlust Inside Me   Oct 17, 2008


The sun shines today,
but so does your face,
as tears slip endlessly,
from the shadowed depths,
once called eyes,
once portraying the world to oneself,
but which now screen your suffering,
conveying the pain you feel,
to a world that lacks a heart,
a world too concerned about itself,
to acknowledge those with a greater need,
those who fight for breath,
even as it is taken from them,
by those who need it least,
those who feel naught but greed,
but they shall feel the agony that comes,
accompanied by the recognition,
of the lost, the forgotten and the selfless,
those with the iron will of a steel tree.

The leaves of the great oak,
quiver as the impact of an ax,
a touch so sharp and unforgiving,
runs up its weather worn spine,
shuddering to an end at its tip,
slipping unnoticed into the wind,
like words left unsaid,
bitten off at the last minute,
left on the tip of your tongue,
a tongue which rests behind your lips,
lips that quiver also,
as yet another blow lands,
as more disappointment sets sail,
captianed by doubt and fear,
determined to reach your life,
once more you try and stem the tears,
that flow like the blood of fallen soldiers,
like the now polluted waters of the world,
to no prevail,
tears still slip so silently,
over those cheeks,
those cheeks you say are worn,
by both travel and premature age,
those cheeks,
so brightly painted,
why hide your face?
is it to hide the guilt?
as you claim to be distorted by worry and eternal heartache,
but yet another life is forfiet,
for a cause unworthy, unnecassary,
a cause so trivial,
compared to the trauma felt for a loved one,
lost to the abyss of time,
the churning darkness of the unknown,
its chilled grace gripping at your throat.

The cold, dry wind lays its icey finger upon your face,
just as your shaking hands touch,
the cool skin of the lifeless,
skin once warm, once living,
now lacking the presence of life,
now lacking the pulse,
driven by the heart,
somewhat similar to that of the world.

You stare into those familiar eyes,
those eyes that once comforted you when you were bereft,
those eyes which now seem to be stiller than ever before,
those eyes that once gleamed with happiness and a zest for life,
eyes that no longer hold the presence of betrayal,
eyes of the no longer living,
as you cradle her limp form within your embrace,
wishing her to be here,
willing her to comfort you,
wanting her warmth to flow over you,
just one last time,
just so you could appreciate what you had,
before you took it away,
before it was too late,
dreaming for her to be back,
but knowing her to be dead, gone,
to never return.

In time you hope to find peace,
but yet the tears still come,
yet the agony still pulses through your veins,
you stare at the walls that encompass you,
and another tear,
finds its way down your face,
a familiar voice rings through your mind,
leaving the message echoing in your ear,
resounding from deep within your memory,
�real men don�t cry.�

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