A Real Man

A real man walks on fours
Seemingly unaware of his own mortality
He dreams of his own face, though he doesn’t recognize it

A real man speaks In fractals
That only he comprehends.
Each dissonant syllable searing meaning into random noise,
Every plagiarized thought bringing him closer to cynosure.

A real man see’s Color.
A vibrant display of inveterate sentience collapsing upon the swards of umbrage,
The foliage teeming with iridescent brio.

A real man harbors
Malice
It gnaws at the fissures conceived through spiteful instillment,
Lashing out with contempt He is not gratified by needless sadism, still he persists.

A real man dies In his sleep
An uninspired chronicle dissolving without contest.
All he leaves behind is a tarnished vessel,
Feeding vitality into grateful loam.

-R.M Loftis