Enemies have more in common than friends.
Seeing one in another’s eyes, in that ageless rage;
Fighting for the same thing, from opposite ends.
The man, the mirror, the reflection of him;
Are three different beings; but not to him.
He sees himself; he sees his own enemy.
Then the breaking begins; a hydra of terrors.
In the end no one remembers the mirrors,
Nor the spark that lit the gunpowder plot.
Just a swath, scarred, pillaged – a field of dead.
Boys washed up, girls drilled – plagued forever;
With an indelible suffering that cannot be said;
Nor felt, by anyone other than the lads,
Who see the fights; ingest the sights,
And reflect them back onto mirrors.
And see war-scarred faces of fathers,
And mothers and brothers and friends,
And them – etched into their DNA.