Flesh On Bone Poem by Saint Eule

What makes a man flesh on bone,
indented eyes, protruding nose.
His gait, his voice, his birth.
Even a beast has all of those.

What makes a man is his portrait,
One painted over a lifetime.
His art, his spirit, his grace,
These things appear in his face.

The colorfull humor over despair,
The distrust of maps makes me laugh,
He is a son, a husband, a father,
A man must take his own path.

What makes a man is his reflection,
Not his sense of any direction.

You think you are alone,
Flesh on bone.