The Hunt, by Steven Thurlow Subscribe to rss feed for Steven Thurlow
Posted: 2005-08-22 22:26:31 UTC
The leather shotgun holster, boot polish black,
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)

Fathers back,

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.

"Shoot son"
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

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2005-08-23 13:22:55~*Amo*~
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

2005-08-23 13:24:12~*Amo*~
lovd it* darlin! how long u bin writin poetry? reply on myn plz xXx