Under the Drunken Moon
If you have love in your life,
Then sir you have achieved what most men cannot.
More than, any sailor dares to conceive in his
Rash and unreasonable mind. But ay
We are just men.
Such feelings of the heart are most times far beyond our conception.
For out of fear we may become lilies
Pansies, butterflies. Our fathers. our fathers removed
From us every emotional bone in our body.
His boy…. A puff?! No sir it cannot be
He would walk him into a room and deal with the problem himself should it be.
For we as lads neither knew what this was
This feeling, this emotion
That our fathers did O’erlook when they fleeted from their homes from daybreak to nigh
It could be called.. mother.
dressed our battle wounds, and warmed us when the rain caught us on the journey back.
We do not blame our mothers for what has happened.
But this motherly bones, this slightest ounce of estrogen that fills our souls
(Due to the absence of our fathers)
Unbalances the scale, tips it almost.
A mothers love, a fathers absence
A mothers instinct created, but a fathers courage and bravery remains.
He was a Puff
He became all the bad names grown men often slinged at each other under a drunken moon
Did he know what to do? Who could he tell?
His mates? Rejection and fear
Mother? Comfort or Shun?
Father? Death or Understanding?
He kept to himself,
Controlled himself while he and his mates skinny dipped in the river
Didn’t stare too long
But still played and roughed like young boys should.
He went off to school, he was older, he learned control.
His mates frolicked in the surge of the hormonal pool
He had his books, and sometimes enjoyed the nightlife with a mate or two from out of town
He was often happy, then often sad…
As if almost from heartache
“But he had no girl?”
Ay there it is, that doesn’t mean the lad wasn’t in love.
Some lad he often spent his time studying with
They travelled the library, read books by a tree in the park
One lying on the others leg, but they made sure they were not found out
He brought him gifts sometimes, flowers, trinkets
But he knew who it was from
And then.. it all stops
His mate finds a girl,
Tosses him aside and acclaims it was just childhood experimenting
But they weren’t children, and that was no experiment
He wasn’t the same
He often drank,
He never drinks. Until now.
His companions worried, often tried setting him up with a girl or two
But they didn’t understand, they didn’t know
So he spent his nights, in the company and beds of desperate woman
Giving them false hope and false pleasure
Only to have their hearts broken.
And on nights like this he sits in bars telling his sad tale to warm hearted gentlemen who take the time to sit and listen, to his “story” unaware of the actual truth it holds.
He knows the value of love.
Because he feels.
Because he can.
The Gentleman who was listening looks over at our protagonist. He smiles, sympathetically. Removes the glass from his hand and stands him up. He draws him nearer, the two now face each other as the gentleman look him deep in the eye and embraces him at the waist. The two stand there in the dark corner, the rest of the world nonchalant and unaware of this moment. They both breathe heavily. Their alcohol drenched breaths become one; an aroma that burns the eyes but calms the nerves; His throat burning, his chest warm.
He examines him, his red hair cut short, and somewhat spiky. His eyes were dark, but welcoming as if they kept a secret behind them. He smelled of gin and gun powder. His hands were big… strong almost but sensitive when it came to touch. He was built large, not fat, but husk that gave him height. His beard was coming in; small peachy prickles of fuzz coming out from his cheek and neck. The gentleman starts to speak:
“I feel”, were the only words he uttered.
The gentleman took him by the shoulder and the two staggered out.
Under the drunken moon.
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