When a man cries, its thunder trapped in a vacuum, where the night falls into sleepless ominous darkness. There is no one but him with tears like glaciers thawing, and seeping into riverbeds. He is the still waters beneath the ocean, calm and unperturbed; you hear no sound of his, only heavy breaths.
When a man cries, its beauty seen in darkness; where his pride averts his sadness. In silence, his voice, a frail twig, snaps. His hurt like paws of a predator clawing from the lair, and pride like a prey grazing on fields – of brown grass and yellow daisies – with bones clutching on his muscles and shackled on his veins. He is ready to spew blood from one’s nape. He is fast and steady to cry.
When a man cries, the wind do not listen neither does it rain. Women do not weep; neither do children cower on his robe. The world does not end; neither does the earth stop orbiting. Time does not wait for him to explain himself. When he hurts, no one knows.
When a man cries the world thinks of him; He is not man enough. Not strong enough to be a man, he is being a child. It is feminine of him to cry and to hurt, and to love, a gibberish concept that only enslaves him. When a man cries, the Lord washes His hands and clenches His fist then strikes him with a blow, ‘get up boy!’ He says.
Angels desert him. Demons adulate, and Delilah welcomes him to her castle, “Come set your burden unto me, tell me your secrets. I will listen” Before him, she sets a table of long neck bottles, and pints of whiskey poured on clear glasses, from which he gulps until he loses his eyesight.
When he wakes, the ground begin to shake as he staggers back home. His veins vasoligates, fist clenches around the pillars, dusts brews, screams heard, women and children wail. The end is nigh.
When a man cries, only a mother can understand.
When a man cries, he needs loving.
Written by Phill Ibsen, The Master of Descriptions.
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