The field where my brother died–
I’ve walked there since.
Weeds and grasses, some chicory
stalks; no trace of the scene
I can still see: a father
and his sons bent above a deer they’d shot,
then screams and shouts.
Always I arrive too late
to take the rifle
from the boy I was,
too late to warn him
of what he can’t imagine:
how quickly people vanish;
how one moment you’re standing
shoulder to shoulder,
the next you’re alone in a field.
Everything in my being and soul rejects this supposedly “liberating” event, which I’ve been told for years I “must” attend.
It has always repelled and frightened me. In addition, like all things Luciferian, it strikes me as dull, tedious, and pointless.
What narcissism. What a load of bollocks.