In the house where men have sat,
with their arms open,
receiving nothing,
the walls have learned to keep secrets.
The ceiling knows more confessions
than any cathedral.
Here is what the body does
when it has been a man too long:
it forgets the depth of the wound
but remembers the weapon
that has caused it.
His chest brews storms.
But he captures them ..
neatly into shirt pockets.
At the peak of grief
a man laughs;
not because it is funny.
Because the alternative
is to become the joke itself.
He was taught, early,
in rooms that smell of responsibility
that becoming the centers of attraction itself,
was the one unforgivable act.
So he laughs.
And no one knows why,
that is precisely the point.
O men,
The unsung architects
of cathedrals no one will ever enter,
He has built so many rooms
and locked him
out of all of them.
He stands n the corridor,
knocking softly,
Knowing, no one will answer.
Every unchecked grief becomes a boulder..
every swallowed ocean becomes a tide,
that retreats quietly.
Every silence
becomes the very thunder
it was trying
to prevent.
A man is an unspoken nation
bordered by pride,
governed by endurance,
It's anthem - a clearing of the throat;
Saying , "yes I can"..
Its flag - vest stained with sweat .
At the peak of rage,
he goes quiet
the way a nation goes quiet
before it loses something fundamental.
the jaw - a locked gate,
the hands
very
still.
Inside: tectonic drift..
Outside: Tuesday.