Inglorious

Father, where have all the young men gone? Have they gone to fight in a war that no one cares for? Becoming soldiers they’re marching closer to the grave. Bleeding red, white and blue the colors of a supposed saint. America. These men lay in trenches equipped with guns; they’re praying to God will we make it home? Will I get to see my family once more? God what’s left for me upon this barren land and sea? America, have you turned your back on me? With panthers revolting in the streets. With barely any food to eat, no means to behold, with fiend arms. Will we make it passed twenty three? Suddenly regret runs through me. Is it the cowardice that haunts me? A disheartened look cloaks my face when bombs disperse upon the place. These fears come and confront me as we take cover in the sanctuary. Clasp my hands and render a prayer. Kneel at the pews. And let my judgment commence. I’ve killed mothers; I’ve killed fathers, and adolescents. Am I a wicked man? Or merely a misguided man? So will my judgment be cast down this day, shall I be redeemed? Father, what’s left for me? Will we make it to see March 1973? So recite that melancholy anthem and those southerly sung hymns, and toll that old brass bell. One last look at the western sea. Father, have you found absolution here in me?