A grain of sand,
a drop of blood -
the bindings of a world
forsaken by the lost,
taken by the wealthy,
and broken by the word.
Fallen brothers,
of the same matter
of different mind,
drop arms to the rise of others,
and consign themselves
to the 'mercy' they would never show.
As you raise your hands, no weapon in view,
I sight a shot, and freeze. I never thought
my own blood would be on the other side.
As our causes differ, I know what I should do,
but I can't - I won't - I release:
I stand down.
The fire on both sides continues,
oblivious to our actions...
An act of mercy unnoticed
in the political battle for power.
For with each tap
of metal against bone,
the cost of 'righteousness' -
a farce for 'freedom' -
is relished by the lords,
the rats who make us mice among men.
The very power of our kingdom
is found not in its leadership,
nor its wealth, nor its firepower.
It is found in the minds, the bodies,
our brothers, our sisters, our children,
our dreams.
It's a power that sweeps the hearts,
and wipes the slates, clean
for the next generation of soldiers
to chalk up our debts, and fight
in our name, just to prove
that they are not us.
It is your kingdom, for none.
It is our kingdom, for all.
Brother, I ask you now to see yourself
for what you really are. Are you
the pawn of the 'powers', rifle raised,
aginst the very ones you fight for?
Are you the slave of your own indifference
to the world outside your own?
I feel the pain of the hundred scores,
the legions of our past, like a searing,
a shredding. It rips through my flesh
in haste, not lingering for my last remarks,
but I can not breathe - the air expelled,
in shock of the foreign force.
In silence, I sink to the shore -
the darkness flooding from the wound
now swirling before my eyes, as
the streams of blood continue
through pursed fingers and shaking hands.
You are your father's son, no doubt...
My broken heart is slow, almost mournful;
its time's at an end. The many
thoughts of regrets and ambitions
to be lost is overpowered,
by the single, unified voice of my body -
the last - "I forgive you."
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I know this is far from good poetry, but it was something I wrote after long night out, which, sadly, only inspired me with sorrow. I hope everyone gathers that this poem is about civil war - the voice narrative voice is a soldier who refuses to fight his own brother, and in turn, is shot by his brother for his mercy.
As usual, all feedback welcomed, but I already gather bits don't make sense, so please don't dwell over it.
Truth here for a review!