He had a way
to posit

a compliment

which was

mixed 

with calclulation

and genuine admiration

with resentments detailed

in his own agony;

a mixture

which rose in me

my own flattery

and my kindness deposited

my own mixture

of bewilderment

and some sense

of his confusion.

He never faltered

away from those sentiments

and when alone
I could sense

his relief
not to have to feel

that admixture

that were his

confused hurts;

a boy yet longing

to be a man

being told that

he was a boy
yet being told he had to be a man;

a boy yet being told

and treated like a boy.

Seeking mentally

to discern

which is which for him

what age does he reach majority;

a man.

So much in this

that whole cultures

create cremonies

that entire societies
provide benchmarks
money, power, fame,
mark for him ways

to achieve what he's been told

is a man.
and yet

us boys

never can gauge when

exactly when
it's attained.

So much of history

we see

in war and strife

comes of this.
So much death
stems from this
until for many

only the death
of the father
releases them.