Brother forgive me,
I find no pleasure in what I must do.
No joy.  No pride.
No honor.
Though the deed that you’ve willed
Will never be,
The intent forever will.
Now the blood of a brother
Must be spilt
On the iron foundation
Of what we have built,
Though it is not for us to say whose,
It would seem that
With the words of a coward,
And the heart of a soldier,
That it is you whom fate has chosen
To mark as her own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet.
He can be reached at:
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370