Brothers Poem by Paul Warren

Playing Cowboys and Indians in the sun
And soldiers with a plastic machine-gun
Then there was the oval and kicking the football
We were always together and each other's call

And then we grew up and we went our ways
In a world that seemed to always get its own way
It is that we don't get what our dreams are
And a wedge becomes bigger and a step too far

But how do you fix it when brothers don't get on
And what is left is an irritating repetitive song
We seem to be each in our little world alone
When there is no place together that seemed home.

© Paul Warren Poetry