Brothers in Blues
We rush to get ready, donning suspenders, starched collars and white gloves.
Everything in place, we pick up our leaded rifles
and hurry to formation, accompanied by marshal music.
We line up as we were taught.
We are boys, playing at being men
in a game we do not fathom.
On a field of living green
we march in our black boots, answering calls
across an open field with pride.
Somewhere in the wide world real men are fighting.
They fall dying for the same cause
we celebrate with ice cream and cake.
On fields of living blood
men run frantically in their black boots,
searching for cover while ducking live fire.
They hit the ground as they were taught,
but no one is playing. They move together as a unit,
while calls and screams accompany a horrific scene.
Men and boys alike, we have all sworn an oath in common:
As men, when the time comes, to pay with our mortal selves, in life or in death,
but my time never comes.
Am I a worthy brother to these men who paid
with blood and bone and plans for tomorrows,
when those tomorrows are mine to spend at will by whim?
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