On the Blood

My elders tell me all the time,

That I was born in a time of peace.

and that there are fewer,

and fewer of them, as time flies by.

As a young boy I watched my father,

come home sick and wither,

under my mother's careful eye.

His body survived the war,

but his mind was not his own,

and before his time he met his end.

Now I sit alone at home, thoughts of my son.

They tell me he's a hero while I sob.

He lived and died for what he believed,

from this much I can derive solace.

He's probably in a box now, ready

to make the long trek home.

He's been a way so very long.

Having watched first my father,

and now seeing my son, victims

of whatever illness this is, that

skips generations so cruelly.

Yes, they tell me I was born,

in a beautiful time of peace.

And I should be glad of this.

But as I sit now, alone in the dark,

the only peace I can see,

are the jagged pieces left over,

from when my family broke around

me.