There’s a solid
weariness
in my bones;
an emptiness that
won’t leave me
alone as i consider
choices i have made
in this
my life’s far too
noisy parade.

Is a man all
he is made out to be,
and if so
just who
must do the making?

Is a tear
drawn from some
remembered hurt
easily erased
as it draws its line
down across
his torn masculinity,
drawing his yesterdays
to a breaking?

Can it be
covered up
with a well writ poem
or drunk to
nothingness
with any wine?