From birth your time, they say, will come. Your family excited, the papers, you sign. Guns flare. The uncles, the grandads, the fathers - those left - they say, your time will come. You sign, they cheer, you fight, they boo. Your war will come.
Fixing instruments of death. A wrench turning man. the author of apocalypse - swift rivers’ final breath. A demon, fears of every depth. Purged of amnesty. Hedge rows trimmed to hypocrisy. A lesson, some say, learned - apple rotting on the desk. A monster lamenting only failure.