Rupture

There is something seething on the backs of most men Something born in the primal need to survive To propagate, to proliferate, to expand upon the horizon Such pride built into the goading of beauty So crass this endeavor, yet without we no longer exist Our world holds this thing as if it does not happen What are we to look away? The purveyors of vice? In our minds no better than the little sandals of Roman times Looking for a way to thrust upon the skies for all to see And yet our father has given us the golden argument Hold tight to the code but pleasure in the bonds of woman This garden of perfection for the promise of tomorrow Not for the conquest of those who are infirm in stature But for the men who wish to love the world as it is The mountains will give us what we need to provide Do not suckle the sap from every branch in the foothills We need only what is given and that is more than enough