Father Knows

 
I cave
A hopeless wretch
As bravery nears
Having conquered
The falling, fading day

Father
He spares few words
As his eyes trace my fear
Disheartened
And burdened with worry

My nerves draw chaos
In the rising fumes of despair
At the swell
Of the morrow’s hatred
Foreseen within, his tired eyes

Father knows
What awaits his feeble son
Fully aware of the carnage
That lingers, quietly simmering

But all questions fade
In the aft of my mind
Dispersed by the fear
He once carried, long ago

“I am afraid”
Would come to pass
In a sudden surge of valor

Ironclad Fighters

 
Falling salvos
Pummeled me with bare fists
And the earth danced wildly
Colors mingling
As I caved with haste

Forward I tumbled
Coursing with peril and shock
My bones still thundering
Ringing
As the curtains were drawn

Nightfall was brief
As I struggled to ascend
Reclaiming my resolve
To seize the faltering day

Like deafening howitzers
My arms slaved onward
Blazing with vigor
Toiling, upon mangled flesh

We were the ironclads
Consigned to our time
Boiling over
With primal hatred

We were the ironclads
Hopelessly marooned
To an isle
Preserved, only in mind

The Sins of Forefathers

 
Is it true
Stouthearted men
Stagger drunkenly
From a hard day’s labor?

Is it true they arise
Unscathed from it all
And yearn to overflow
With a pub's fleeting thrills?

Perhaps they swear?
Unashamed and brazen
Letting foul words stream
Behind each cigarette's
Cavalier plume

Or true valor lies
In the spun deeds of battle
The unending trash
Of primal man

Or does falsehood plague
What many
Foolishly hold dear?

Man of the Heart

 Through the broadened day
He wanes
Defiled by downward gazes
Seemingly high
But, lowly in the sharp eyes of truth

Even in its hateful midst
The heart of him,toils onward
Feasting upon the treasures
That gracefully trickle out of his mind

He is the prisoner of sensation
Shrouded in relief
And elated in its presence
He is the scholar of the mad
Searing beneath his bones
With a motive of deathly erosion

But one fine day
He will brandish victory
Buried beneath his arm
And carted to the soil he has dubbed home

Fit in his own form
He'll display his spectrum of emotion
For he is the man of the heart
Detested by many
And treasured by far too few