What Makes Us Men

Landscapes that stretch and straight

from horizon to the final gate.

On they go —

grow. Expand in size

as before our eyes

a game of chess unfolds.

Each square a story as yet untold.

The same view, the same ground

and yet we’ve found here something

altogether new —

a feeling that grew within us all,

a seed in the ungodly heat,

an ancient land rising between our feet.

It defies expectation —

and placation of the insatiable wanderlust,

the painful thrust

of a life crying out for achievement,

deceivement of the senses as to what is right

and what should be in sight.

If only we could let it all go,

flow with the world ahead,

break our bread with all those frustrations,

machinations of a normal life;

the love, the work, the strife.

Out here we find ourselves

put on the shelves

all that stings, all that bites

all that fills our mouths with spite.

To put it all away and in the grey light of dawn

look upon plateaus that yawn

and stretch ahead.

It’s said the dreams we hold,

the realities we try to mould

never match yardsticks we place out of reach

yet we teach, preach always to each other —

smother the doubts of what comes next.

We’ll hold them in,

shallow our sin

and we’ll come back again.

That’s what makes us Men.

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