Alchemisland

After my brother’s stabbing I remember the kettle boiling

At light’s lapsing arrived dour parents, wearing day’s toiling

Alighting long suffering fell silent and longsighing allowed finally feel thankful

Tankful of upturned woe vial, aside them angels and viler iterations

April’s ides bewared, too tired for ire they thanked God for two sons

Dad upon his gracious knees, who oft prayer shuns 

I lacking understanding looked on uncaring, peering through cracks to see in

What thoughts I harboured about blades were mostly Tolkien’s 

Stirring with a spoon I mull, beside my plate

A knife’s soon fate; unavoidable union of flesh and metal. 

Same since Cain that day come around again, evolution we chuckle seems in vain

His blood armoured boots rigid as timbers stood months in the corner of the room

Grizzly trophies, as if he’d been raptured; the ghost that had lived in mam’s womb. 

But he is not dead and he did not die, memento mori his boots recall knives

No man longs peace like the man who has bled

He didn’t die, goddammit, he is not dead.