Boys do cry.

Boys do cry.

What of the tear that falls

In isolation,

Even as it dries,

The trace it leaves

Barely visible

In the dust

Around my feet,

Is it worthy

Of attention.

What of the sweat

That soaks the pillow,

The taste of salt,

The smell of fear,

The cold shiver,

A steel blade

Slicing through the bones

With a chill

That renders me

Incomplete,

And leaves nothing

Behind but the merest hint

Of its ice cold fingers,

Freezing even

The warmest of words,

Mid flow.

What of the pain

Of losing

That hollows caverns

On the inside.

Empty grottoes,

Honeycomb spaces

Contained

By a mosaic shell,

All too easily cracked.

Is that insubstantial

When it

Brings strong men

To their knees,

Turns the steely heart

Into a jelly pot.

And if it is nothing

To shed a tear for,

Then nothing

Is what

This life

Must really be about.