He Was My Sun

He was my sun, my one and only son, attired as a cowboy for the day. And so I handed him a little gun of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play. Attired as a cowboy for the day he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade. He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made) well written in his story books before he left for school. The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel. Well writ in history books before he left from school, the tales (retold of victories that we’d won) were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel. The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun. From tales retold of victories that we’d won, he learned to fight for God and country glory, though the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know). He learned to fight for God and country glory, though the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh) and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know); but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye. The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh, the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave. But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve. The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave. They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide. They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died; his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud. With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide our children from the spilling of their blood. His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud; they said they’d needed him to help defend our children from the spilling of their blood. But can they ever see or really comprehend? They said they’d needed him to help defend, and so they handed him a little gun. But can they ever see or really comprehend? He was my sun, my one and only son.