Shooting At The Dead Poem by Leon Agnew

On weekends at June's peak
To my uncle's house I often sneak
With my very assorted friends
To go and meet assorted ends.
We never know what's waiting there
But never really seem to care
What secrets the old forests hold
In their leafy trees and breezes cold.
We hang around the old back porch
Lighting the euphoric torch
And gazing deeply into the eyes
Of Melissa-Jane, who often lies
Naked on the wooden floor
Her clothes askew, her gorgeous core
Exposed upon the knotty pine.
Oh, how I wish that she was mine.
But never will I see the light
Until I have dispelled my fright.
Then I will gladly take her hand
And lead her into promised lands.
Promised lands for all of us
Promised lands of frozen fuss
Where gossip and sin never take hold
And never we are out in the cold
Of uncle's house and nephew's cave
Where mankind never we would save
Where teenage-hood we all condemned
And simply sat and simply sinned.
But wait - the torch deceives me
A silver hand Out There receives me
Brighter than a thousands suns
My brothers chase it with their guns
But never do the bullets maim.
The apparition. All the same
I stay quite still. I have no fear.
I have no reason to endear
This moment so very normal
There's nothing there that makes it formal.
So I simply let it take me There
Where never there is frozen air
And never shall we ever sin
And never shall our fears begin.
But then I realize I'm asleep
And from the porch I scarcely peep
Into the woods, where nothing's there
Not a single silver hair.
Somehow, I am quite despondent
I wish to be a correspondent
To the homely, sweet old folks
Who live within the wooden spokes.
But I am left out here
With nothing but my drugs and beer
I wish that I was somehow free
Away from here - away from me
But still I am inside my head
With my brothers, shooting at the dead.