A nation grandstands glory.
“Go, my son. Do your father proud.”
And the son always goes.
Thinking he’s nothing to offer here.
When young as old envies,
Charges as ordered,
Rapaciously configured,
“Your son died a hero,
don’t you know we made him
a murderer?
Be proud.”
And the real father weeps.
Progeny wasted,
To sharp blades of grass.
Too sharp to leave alone
On god’s green earth.
Earth that eats the love of your love.
Why do you let them go?
Why?
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
A strange pilot this
world is, fighting glassy,
distant nomads for space.
In time, vends names.
Foam alone in fear.
“Did you see that?”,
I fear not dear.
No one was watching.
Or they didn’t care.
- Gods
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC