American Revolution

My most prized possession,
My family.
It was ripped away from me,
All because of those soldiers,
Those British men who think they're so wonderful.
They're not.
The Boston massacre was a massacre indeed,
To me anyways.
My father was shot,
My mother couldn't live without him.
She was the butchers wife,
So she had the butcher's knife,
And left this world soon after my father.
My best friend,
My brother John.
He left to be a sailor.
To go to lands far away,
To send the money he made to us.
He never did.
He wrote only once.
And then never again.
I stand on this battlefield,
The smell of gunpowder in my nose.
My deepest fear,
That I may never make it out here alive.
I’m wondering why I’m here.
Revenge, perhaps?
I see those bright lights at the other end of the field.
Shots whiz by my ears,
Making the air scream around me.
I can almost taste the fear on my tongue.
I can feel the bullet plunging in to my chest.
Goodbye, brother.
In hopes that I see you again some other life,
Goodbye.