The Making Of A Man

The masculine, my lad
Is not the bombast of foolish braggadocio
Nor the flexing of unwarranted muscle
The brutal crush of an innocent

No, the masculine is

The glint of the sword, sheathed yet
Ready to defend
With honor and dignity
Those who would be trespassed

The strength of steel running
Through the marrow of the heart
Capable of great tenderness
The deepest kind of compassion

The life blood that flows from a
Wounded thigh
The wellspring of
All humanity.

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