Sovereign Sons

Lone hope
flickers like
a candle in the dark;

hands over hearts as if
ours have felt the
arrhythmia of

a brother
left behind.

Nations lower
whole flags, most having
never dragged one’s tatters

to safety.

The world’s always
changing,
revising,
erasing,
bombing,
pillaging
and maiming history in
favour of the moment,
every mouth moving but
the souls who’ve
been closest to it.

There will always be war
creationists and
their proxies,

but also
an odyssey to
overcome them.

There will always be
a talking head,
immeasurable death,

but also

sovereign sons,
too many whose
last moments repaid our

ideological debts,
while the rest
live to
vividly remember
it,

And when my children ask me where all the heroes went, I’ll tell them they live inside a moment of silence, one day a year our heads are lowered and eyes dressed with sorrow,

late autumn
camaraderie
not nearly
long
enough.

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9 thoughts on “Sovereign Sons

  1. Reblogged this on On the Edge of the Well and commented:
    In honor of all of the men and women who have given their service, their bodies, their hearts and minds, their sense of peace and well-being, their lives. Sincerely, deeply: thank you.

    May we not take the service of others, their sacrifices, for granted. May we not be numb to what goes on outside of the alabaster filters of our borders. War is a terrible, devouring beast, pregnant with its own ugliness–the men and women who are used to wage it are not.

    A poignant piece from a fellow poet: Sovereign Sons.

    Like

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