What makes man write odes to curves beneath robes
What makes man wage war for thrones and spill blood for gold
What makes man stab, connive and lie for concubine
What amps our pride even as cubs in our mother’s arms
drapes us with capes though we are still clay
What masks our weakness with rage
and above love or tenderness craves respect
What often leaves us the sole voyager on deck
unwilling to leap into rafts nor float to shores of exposure
What leads us into waters too deep
till we can’t breathe?
Here I Am 