If I am but a man, then be it so.
And I eat strength and breathe fallibility.
But I confess, to be man is a gift by
one name and burden by another.
Heartbeat and fresh flesh is my honor.
And still, I weep for my bleeding core
that proves so fragile.
For I am beast with evolved morality,
fish with lung, and bird with broken wing.
Tamed by that which drove Romeo
and twisted Hitler. Love and Hate.
And love do I the beauty of hatred
seen, examined, and understood.
Between the poet and the sleeping lion
lies my identity. Intact and scarred.
So if I be man, then drench my brow
with sweat, break my back with labor,
but layer my tongue with stanzas that
burst free and drip from my lips like honey!
And with that identity, I shall yawp
with barbaric thunder and scream
my mortality from the highest mountain.