My Brother Died

My brother died in armor,
A cold blade in his side.
His eyes believed the sky to be a painting,
White and black.
My brother died in snow covered cavalry,
A steel ball in his chest.
His arms were bent like crooked arrows,
Still warm, but broken.
My brother died in starving agony,
Only bones and lonely silence.
His heart was just a whisper,
Lifted lightly from his ribcage.
My brother died in torn hospital sheets,
His skin was a breathing organ,
Alive and twitching,
His hands, a map of medicated oceans,
All moving beneath his skin.
All desperate to escape their prisons;
All wanting to be free;
All clinging to the idea that life is something you can hold onto with your fingers;
All worshiping the holy name of my life, my strength, my will;
All ministering to religions that birth chaos in creation;
All withering in the constant hum of wasted youth and apathy;
All wandering through empty halls, crying out for lost memories;
All lusting after brighter days with people who do not know your heart or soul;
All glittering with the marked passion of someone who has lost everything;
All bursting forth with Please! Please! Please! for time to bend to your desire;
All forcing down the bitter taste of never, never knowing--
And all measurable vicissitudes of life were thrown into
The churning sea of his weak heartbeat,
Draining his spirit from his body.
My brother died.
And he said, “Finally.”