The price of being a man

 

We carry little burdens in our hearts. 

A small procession 

carried out with every loss we let go.

A funeral 

that ignites on its own. 

A sadness 

that rises like the embers of winter firewood.

 A past self,

 the size of our fist.

 A heart 

swelled up
inside our ribcage.

 A word 

so heavy it has no name. 

 Something so full it feels empty. 

A hollow carcass that beats with our name. 

And tears

so fickle it dries before the sleep arrives.

A price

 so huge it takes all goodness to recover.

 An evil 

so rampant it too takes over. 

And sooner or later these little flying flickers of daily routine, turn into huge weights over our shoulders.

 We look down and walk more humbly.

 We smile quietly and pick words with care.

 We say goodbye with a delicate caress 

and hello with a warm embrace. 

We live life all the time wondering what if? 

The price of being a man doesn't exist.