Hours Of Darkness

In the hours of darkness, men wear masks of courage, entangled in the myth of stoic strength. Beneath that armor, fear pulses—a silent question of worth, a tug towards retreat. Is he not still a man? Frightened, yet human. Tears, once thought only for women and children, trace paths down the face of masculinity.

Sorrow clings to the heart, knowing that a mother’s love is often the sole source of unconditional love. Misunderstood and overlooked, men shoulder burdens that bend them, striving to lighten the load for those they cherish. These desperate souls are but children weathered by the relentless cruelty of an indifferent world.

Passion, can be the flame of purpose; with its dimming, the spirit languishes also. Duty endures, but life becomes hollow. The light in mans eyes dim, and he usually seeks refuge in the numbing embrace of a vice, a distraction from life’s cold grip.

Told to master his emotions but never taught to understand their language, these men wrestle with an inner demon. Desperate times do not call for desperate men; desperate men cry out for love and understanding. In adversity lies the chance for connection, a path to transform self-perception.

Man will be as he is, flawed and profound. There is nothing more honest than the heart of a man.