Our Absalom

The sounds of war resound behind A fabric tent or sturdy stucco walls Be it silk or mortar, you hear Mother’s tears and father’s Cries if they be Queen and King or Suburban housewife and blue-collar guy. Brothers still hate brothers, and little Sisters still tear and wish they were not Loved if that took away the pain from One they loved with something deeper Than a sword to the gut, or a slammed Door or a smack like helmets knocking. Patricide is unnatural, ignoble, but a mind Carved by jolts and tragedy will lust to Kill off himself and those who love him Or used to before the blood fell on the field and He died, thrusting himself on a sword with His woe begotten power, finally bigger than himself. Still the most he could do is die in war Father cries, “Absalom!” and fights no more