How do broad shoulders
bare the weight of what
we carry to the grave,
and how do we gauge
the weight of
what never was?
They say we simply
need to share
to speak,
but I know not one man
that can shine a torch
on his own demon,
let alone name It.
So They start to circle
as bones no longer
Creak but Crack
and broad shoulders start
learn the pain of growing older
and like demons
make for
fine friends.
If
the eyes are the window
through which we can look
into the soul,
Then let words serve
as a souls outstretched arms
and when we look in let us see
that in yours are a shield,
and mine a sword,
Then let you block and bash
as I swing and slash
that not one more man may fall
and broad shoulders need bare
nothing at all.
As we grow old and carry the weight of our lives, we find those with similar demons and gain a sort of peace in sharing.
