Forcefully standing, yet brutally misunderstood, he trots through life with armour for sleeves; a stoic slave to his parts, ripped apart from his heart.
His tranquil vulnerability is superficially cloaked with a fallacious quantity of perfection and is sumptuously styled to portray an indestructible coat of arms. His emotionless appearance crumbles from the eternal dryness of his cheeks. "Be a man!", they shouted.
His weakness renders him magnificent, but the carelessly moulded stone that blocks his pores and blurs his thoughts remains intact. Unable to chip at the monstrous boulder, gentle caresses delicately dismantle his titanium-layered skin.
A streaming tear seems prohibited, but a sturdy rock does not dissolve in rushing waters. The noticeable extravagance and grandeur of a man is not diminished at the slightest smidgen of emotional discomfort. There exists no apparent need to achieve a tearless legacy status.
Feelings are meant to be worn on sleeves; not buried beneath flat sheets of metal and solid stone.