THE STATE OF MAN

THE STATE OF MAN

(Shakespearean Style Lament)

Behold this age, wherein the sons of men

Do wander between commandment and disdain;

Told to be bold, yet chided for the same,

And branded brutish if they dare be strong.

“Boys will be boys,” the careless chorus cries,

Yet when boy’s heart grows weary, seeking form

Of manly mold, it is only scorn that awaits him there.

Men are appointed to stand as bastion walls,

To guard, to give, to suffer without tear;

To wage our wars in silence, walled in stone,

Yet cursed as tyrants should we raise our voice.

The masses crave the noble flame of masculinity,

While quenching that fire as it ignites,

Calling it harsh, archaic, and unfit.

Behold the father, the clown of prime time,

A dolt, a dunce, by laughter made a slave;

His wisdom lost to mockery and jest,

His counsel drowned in giggling disdain.

One dare not praise the stalwart, steadfast man,

Lest they be named oppressor, brute, or knave;

Thus strength, once virtue, wears the mask of vice.

The maid who roars her pain is honored bold, and rightly so.

Her wounds are hymns, her sorrows crowned with grace;

But should a man unseal his hidden grief,

His lament is deemed wrath, his honesty offense.

These tears, forbidden, curdle into fire,

And fury is the orphaned child of sorrow

Denied the right to weep.

Still he is charged to lead, yet told to yield;

To steer the ship, without commandeering the wheel.

Tasked with the provision of daily bread,

Yet if he falters, branded useless or unworthy,

Or worse — unneeded.

What justice crowns this court: where man is debtor?

Stripped of right and robbed of time;

a heart of love condemned to a prison.

So what is man if neither rock nor reed?

What name for man, when all his names are scorned?

He seeks not throne, nor crown over souls—

Only the space to labor, love, and live,

To bleed without derision, stand without disgrace.

For if this flame must fade without a song,

Then mourn, O world, the silence thou hast made.