My son is dead
by Glass

My son is dead
You see
He flew off to some foreign sea
Like an infection corroding his head

I love my son
He was golden yellow to me
I cradled him close to me
His tenderness was true.

Salt licks and raw flesh
Careening like predators
Starving for vermin
Desiccating into the heat

Holding still and steadfast
Waiting for Picasso to deconstruct
Then reconstruct
Then deform
Then praise
Then love
My son

I hold him at night
And look at his simple expression
And remember the babe
Soft and full of life
Twinkling like candlelight

Purple hearts and yellow ribbons
Celebrate the degradation
Of my blood my youth my son

And the flag flaps in the wind
My breath shallow and thin
Full of regret and sin
Hollow from within
Let it all come in
We didn't win

My son is dead
You see
His head flew off for all to see
Like cannon balls and rotted blobs
Leaking onto the searing streets
Close to me yet far away

He played in the backyard
Chasing butterflies and catching frogs
He laughed and smiled and sang
His birthday sweetened
And loved
My son

Brave and strong
Silent but wrong
Streets littered with pain
Shame and not knowing the game
Burning planes and whistling fear
Overcame and busting his ears
Disregard for his green years

Type my name on a letter
Send the commander
Salute with what you shoot
Triangle, flowers, and wood

Don't tell me lies
Taped and recorded by spies
My son dragged out and died
An enemy none to him
Tearing off all his limbs

My son is dead
Head full of lead
Last sounds of pains
Dirt in his flesh
Taste of rust
Blinded and burned
Cutting crust

My love my son
Look what you've done
My vibrant daffodil
Imprisoned, poisoned and punished
Lost in a vault
Some say it was my fault
My life weathered tattered and taut
Creeping and seeping something forgot.

Copyright © 2007 - Glass
Published: 8/9/07   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem