My Son, Far Away
My Son, Far Away
In the sunny gloom of this
ocean of burning Earth,
the scythe of time hovers like
a hungry vulture above us
men of "honorable" duty, but thankfully,
for my weary heart, this
graveyard of sand is never too far
from my son, far away.
We are but men, not Gods,
for every death my hands effect
I kneel closer to my own.
Only the bespoke hands that
signed neat, dotted lines can
explain this infernal farce that
donned in warrior's attire the
father of my son, far away.
He's a fine gentleman for sure,
in him I see the man I never got to be,
I fear now I may never see
again that little boy whose big feet
long outgrew his father's shoes.
If my death blocks an evil bullet, be it so.
Let no bullet fly past me,
and reach my son, far away.
So when I die, oh brother,
rest me not amid these sinners,
in this bed of metal thorns and
aged blood.
I beseech you to, instead,
lay me to rest in
the soil that sculpted me, and
take me home to my son, far away.
War Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Date: November 12, 2021
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