They were wrapped in anything they could find.
The wind biting at them,
as the rain pelted every layer of cloth
they had swaddled themselves in.
It was difficult to remember
what brought them there in the first place.
To this monument of forgotten men and monsters.

Once upon a time they would gather,
all their materials put together
in the center of the room,
as the game went on.
It was always the same game
in those sepia toned days.

Now they stand there, trying to
cry for a fallen friend,
but unable to fight back the betrayal
in their hearts. Their words were hollow
,their strength had wanned.
The rain mingled with the dirt.

They had once discovered the fairer ***.
Hormone driven conversations
about the lurid things they would do
if ever given the chance.
Caught up in the notion that *** was
somehow life. Somehow it would
make them men.

Men now stood where
there should have been boys.
Only days ago
they were children. How could it
be misread so badly?
They assumed that growing up was
going to be slow, and fueled by wild
nights and the women who would
come and go. Now, in the rain stained
world they find themselves in as men,
it only took mutual tragedy.

When we were children we used
to pull the blankets up to our chins.
Repeating the same tired mantras
again and again, the more we can
repeat it, the more it will ring of truth.
“I'm alone in this room.
There is no such thing as monsters.”