Fathers wage war against their sons…

Fathers wage war against their sons

As they have done since the beginning,

And the weapons they use are carved

From the trimmings of different materials.

Wood, stone, porcelain and glass,

Formed into small statuettes.

Fathers and sons, with precision exact,

Use their armies to cross the field.

“Who instructs my actions?”

Surely the soldiers contemplate.

“Is it the sword or the shield,

Or the pet falcon which now flies away?”

While the soldiers stand and wonder

How far the falcon will fly,

An arrow sings past their ears

Piercing their Queen with a crimson dye.

Castles then fall to battering rams,

And the sneaky bishops slant through;

While minions coalesce around their King,

And knights in 24 paces move.

Timeless strategists, nocturnal assassins,

On the plain of the mind they battle,

Until dawn spills blood over the horizon

And all but the cattle are slain.

Surrounded, ensnared, the game is over

When daggers return to sleep,

And fathers with wet eyes and red lips

Succumb to their most fearful dreams:

That for generations which now have past,

And for future generations to come,

This checkered plain of ultimate chance

Will host war between fathers and sons.