The Hunt, by Steven Thurlow
A cocked rifle, loaded!
Both barrels, polished for
A smooth shot.
The pride man holds over their weapons of war,
Or is it mearly the pride of tradition?
Mother, mature and aged watches cricket
(With others of that sort)
The look on the boy,
Mesmerised by the actions of his father.
His hands carry dead limp bodies,
Now tainted with the blood of the innocent.
Wanted him to be strong, be a man a real man
And ike a bullet through a flock of doves,
His conscience lies crippled.
By Steven Thurlow
|wow! a 'real man' i think the son in the poem was more of a man feeling the hurt n pain...lovd in darlin! xXx|
|lovd it* darlin! how long u bin writin poetry? reply on myn plz xXx|