Brotherhood Poem by H.E Warfield

The smell of scotch and glasses meeting, Is surely the sound of two men reminiscing.
They hang their heads with heavy memories taking another stubborn sip to dilute their defeat.
Asking why and what if, analysing every theory.
They speak of God and faith, gambling and scotch, Women and children, Work and success.
Everything they turned to.

They blame the brothers and the nuns for the shame, weakness would result in a beating.

Their fathers and mothers whose shoulders turned, stoic beings that exhibit no emotion.

Their wives who couldn’t give what they never had, the lips that once took pride in their name.

Their children for rejecting the sacred book, and doing only what immortals should dare desire.

The government and society for the collapse of morals and wisdom. They then speak of the wisdom in suffering and despair, singing a song of prideful sorrow.

But still, marching side by side the brotherhood has lasted, nostalgic for a place they never had, trying to enter Bethlehem. A understanding that no woman will ever grasp only compassionately bare.