No country for young men

Photo by shotinraww on Unsplash

Upon hearing that another young man

A friend of the family, under thirty,

Has taken his own life, by his own hand,

I stop to think. I have no other way. To cope.

Maybe, this whole insincere malarky of ‘modern life’

Drove him to the rope, to the sharpened knife.

…..

She is born who is going to decorate my death,

But I am old and certain things are fixed, but, dear God,

Not this, please dear God, no, not this.

Is he laughing at you, at me?

He, who was found swinging on tippy-toes,

Under an old beech tree, he’d slashed his wrists

To make a good job of it.

………

His hair and eyes were just the same

as when he was alive

His body will soon be buried or cremated

On a day much like any other but not, by God,

For his poor mother, no, not for his poor mother.