Brothers Where Art Thou, Brother Two

[methos]

I is with great sadness I post.

Agony strikes to my heart at seemingly inconsequential conversations.  The Grey Pate is stricken with strife as am I.

This is my castle and here I sit.

Are you proud now brother number one? You that comment with such collected wisdom on current events. The never Him man, the they are all crooks man.

You shame the Old Pate one to the point of leaving before words exchanged cannot be reclaimed. You curse the One on high, You play games of the mind with me when all I want is the love of one of the same source.

See in the distance oh Brother number One. There is a storm front approaching. A wall cloud dark and vertical. Cutting off with crisp lines the before and the after. You see it as the natural progression of what? I cannot grasp even the dirt upon which you stand. Your pillars of justice seem like crooked whips to me, driving onward, pain inflicting instruments of the modern times.

Brother Two, he seems more your ilk. His spouse whispers sweet nothings. The serpents forked tongue is a sweet beguiling feeling to the flesh of man. Man is beguiled by curved flesh so easily. And so has it always been.

Should the stormfront break upon us can I count on such a soul as yours? Are you to come only to preserve your hide from the hunters that seek all living flesh? I need the Man, the one who is willing to sacrifice all, body whole to the Holy cause, but you mock all that is such. You leave me in a quandary Brother Two.

Stormfront, tall, dark, inevitable. We have been here before. Nothing is new under the sun. I long for days gone by, but they are gone by with days different before them. Mule is replace by John Deere B, by Case, by Steiger. We see that nothing changes, but that is through rose colored glasses. It always changes, it always has.

In a side street bar in Rome Marcus Justus leans drunkenly over to his friend “Do you think its true what they say, that Hannibal ante portas?

This is my castle and here I sit alone.

End of line.

[methos]

I don't think postapocalyptic poetry is going to catch on as a genre.

Brother Two showed up at my door the other night after probably 4 years since we've seen each other. My addled mind for a moment couldn't figure out who was there. The sadness of families spread over the country is underestimated I think. My father doesn't see his son, let alone his grandchildren save for many years spread at a time. Such has always been the way of things I guess. Think of what the early settlers of this land had to endure, many I'm sure never returned home to introduce their parents to their grandchildren.

Family is important to me, and thus this little exposition. First born behave different from the later. The later strike out I suspect, genetically driven to seek out new opportunities and risk away from the crib. I as first born did not travel far, risk adverse...Interesting thoughts.

[methos]

I have come to think that the prepper mindset is both the fear of, and the desire for solitude.