To be a man (If only I could!)

The Stone of Scone seems not insurmountable when initiation beckons.
Yet my endeavour to mount it terminated abruptly,
        my lack of traction punctuated by the pride that preceded
        the plummet, to the accompaniment of a soft cadence
        of sardonic querying of my manhood.

Howls of desultory derision announced my arrival.
It used to be easy, being a man; no mantic ability required,
        yet the unwritten, unspoken and unbending rules,
        replaced recently by emotional intelligence,
        continue to pervert collective masculine history.

Man was born, worked, fought and died; it wasn’t hard.
Hitherto the labyrinth of feelings and emotion lay claim to my goal;
         my heart’s lips pine for that time long ago
         before the labret of Pan’s lance pierced the remnant
         of the dying breed of that bygone age.

How I beseech the universe, let me be a man again - if only I could!
Unspoken, unseen, unknown, yet so familiar, the past
         mocks me as I pass, with the admonition:
         to thine own self betray, not so much as this:
         no tears, no fears, not even a life at all.