Floorboards creaking,
hard soled shoes
hard fought battles.
A missive -
a message.
The briefcase feels heavy,
the heart heavier still
The door looms large -
imposing,
iron studs driven into ancient, weathered wood.
He draws himself to his full height
and knocks nervously-
three times.
Already lines are being drawn,
troops assembled,
,embassies empted,
but he must be here,
to deliver a message of hate,
in civil terms
He and the man within -
they shared drinks,
they spoke,
they laughed,
but now, though they will never trade blows,
never meet in battle,
they are enemies.
Cannons booming,
well worn boots,
hard fought battles.
A bullet,
a grenade.
The rifle feels heavy,
the heart heavier still.
The enemy lines loom large,
threatening -
concrete pillboxes driven into scarred earth.
He touches the cross at his chest,
and mumbles a prayer.
Already comrades are falling.
Villages emptied,
but he must be here -
to deliver a killing blow
in vicious terms.
He and the men opposite
are strangers
are faceless,
but now they must fight to the death,
meet in battle.
They are enemies.
TV blaring,
well worn settee.
Hard drinking man.
A remote.
A paper.
The eyelids feel heavier -
the hate heavier still.
He spits vile words at his children,
preaching -
messages of intolerance driven into young minds.
He shouts at the women in the kitchen -
already his bottle is empty.
He could show them -
the godless foe,
he tells his kids.
He paints the enemy
in hateful terms.
He doesn’t know why,
but he hates them -
those strangers.
He tells the children the must all die,
though he doesn’t know who they are.
It’s his duty,
they are enemies.
