You, son of man, are a thing to behold.

I could call you a beauty, and you would shrug it off, for the world has taught you that ‘beauty’ subscribes to the feminine.

I could call you a gem, and you would shrug it off, for the world has taught you that ‘gem’ subscribes to anything that will get you feminine appreciation.

You, son of man, are a thing to behold.

In you lies beauty, gems and abundance.

In you lies greatness, conviction and chaos…for light and dark are solid.

So, I lie here, watching the rise and fall of your chest…counting days, moments, memories unknown to you.

If I were good with a pencil, I’d sketch you,

I’d curve you using this piece of lead, emboss you on a piece of paper, show you off on a wall, for the world to see.

I do what I can with words, so you reside in them.

You, son of man are a thing to behold, and when you rise to get yourself a glass of water, I see it, the weight of the world on your shoulders, running down your back like The Nile.