Letting Slip

Mud splattered militant gents,
Racing to the slaughter,
Not even water could wash away
Such blunt transgression.
These boys in blue
Were once men in the making,
But making men is something
Only the righteous can do.
We’re making monsters.
Hopes and dreams be damned
If our ego cannot withstand itself.
Let this burden bury our boys,
And see to it that their joys
Be crushed with the authority of war.
The context of our credo withheld
From rapturous public regard,
So our boys are sent off to be marred
With savage atrocities upheld.
Screams and shouts shake
The bleeding Earth to her core,
And dogmatic politicians want more.

Eventide

The sun like a terrified child,
Too mild or meek for papa’s routine,
Abides to the trees, along the ravine,
Careful in tact to fend off the storm
And sift into a shadowless form.
The moon, too weak to spite the sun,
Reticulates his father’s scorn,
And by opposition, breaks the day
Offering none but the faith of morn.
Day into night into day by day breaks,
The father of two demure children awakes,
And silently, violently thrown about,
Shakes his head once and bows out.