Little child born in the night,
While the father burns in twilight,
With a blood-letting moon
Hidden behind a thinning line;
And bullets whiz by
As babies cry.
Mothers’ sons play with new toys,
While daughters’ fathers bleed and die.
Grandfather sits quiet in his chair,
Dark malignancy has taken his hair.
His last Christmas, with apparitions above,
Grandfather’s spirit falls in the wind.
St. Nick comes, the kindest of the kind,
The Grim Reaper follows right behind.
Author notes
Written by: Andrew Harden, Andreas Fortunis, and Zak Hancock (as a joint effort)
The skeleton of this poem was originally formulated by my good friend Andrew Harden who just conjured it on the spot after being bid to write it on the very last day of school before Christmas. He was quite convinced to just destroy it before I took it abruptly from his hands and started doing what I always do - overly disect and edit it - and made him see that all we needed to do was change a few things here and there. With Zak Hancock and Andrew Harden at my side, I then began to meticulously form it into the form you see it in now.
To fortify - we are not anti-war, nor are we against the military in any form or fashion. Andrew Harden admits that Christmas is his favorite holiday, and he was the one to truly write this poem, myself and Zak acted merely as editors.
Andrew Harden, however, cares little for poetry and has no account on AllPoetry.com, nor any desire to acquire one (even after my urgings). I therefore submit this poem in Andrew's place because, unlike him, I cannot bring myself to throw this poem away.
Please give me your opinions on this piece.
Comments
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Awesome.
Your fucking done, son! haha jk. i really do like this one. good job, oh, and thanks for the mention.
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Raw truth and yet hopefully a wake up call, loved the ending of Santa's spirit at the same time Grim Reaper is at work too...prayers and blessings to our soldiers...
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