In this field the lilies lie
Where we came to play
We came to die

Sandboxes shoulder deep,
The rodents crawl by my feet.
The playground a reminder of a year before,
To take a life is to gain rapport.
The lush fields the setting; we had them there too.
They make whizzing noises like the bumblebees do.
My playmates have grown now, their chins scratching with stubble.
We play different games now,
The fort turns to rubble.

We jump to and fro, diving through the foreign dirt,
Some of us win, and some get hurt.
Boom! Thatís it, youíre out. The gameís over for you,
There is no debate; this is the new game.
The elders the umpires, but we get the blame.

Can the boss not speak? Or is it he canít act?
What has belittled his mind with intent to distract?
It canít be his conscience; this is clearly what He lacks.

We trudge through the mud, fit for a fight.
Baked brown cotton draped over as costumes.
Confidence and jitters, it feels almost like flight.
Legs shake, fall flat; the canon booms.
Contours the air, stroking our necks.
Haunting, taunting and entrancing our hearts.
Visuals are zero. Our eyeballs perplex.

Confusion? No. We are desperate Men.
I wish that I sleep well father, Amen.



Phillip Beckett
18 March 2007