Son of a Cannon Ball

I’m just the son of a cannon ball, hard and heavy,
blacker than any snow white dove. Cold to the touch,
my blunt metallic skin siphons heat away through your fingertips,
leaving your hands cold and clammy, but that’s not important
because you probably only touch me with gloves on anyway.
And I know I’m dull to look at, but if you take me out under the sun
and look hard enough, you’ll see a glimmer of sunshine in my eyes.
I was born in a furnace, in the middle of heat and flame, hammers
and all the hard and heavy things in life, pounding my brothers
on the anvils and pouring out my sisters into molds,
each of them their own tool, implements of sturdy metalwork.
I went out the front door with warlike aspirations
but I never thought about the cost of that, the price
that so many men must pay just for a few brief seconds
of a cannon ball in flight.

I’m just the son of a cannon ball, and my father
and I never talked much. He was just as hard and dull as I am,
didn’t know how to talk to somebody or do anything other than
make war. He wasn’t around much, he was always off fighting
his own battles, battles other men told him to fight. He didn’t ask me,
and if he would’ve asked me, I wouldn’t have known better, so I guess
it’s all okay. He didn’t do anything wrong if I never knew
he was supposed to do something right. He’s just a cannon ball,
and he’s more inclined to fighting words and heavy blows than
such delicate tasks. He taught me when the fight starts,
to come out with my guns up, to hit hard and hit fast and
hit ‘em right between the eyes. And I don’t know how,
maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I think that while he was
waiting for his fuse to run out, he said a silent prayer.
I think it all turned out alright

I’m just the son of a cannon ball, and I’m about to
meet my end here on the battlefield, where the
sons of other men and other cannon balls will do
the same in a bitter marriage of steel and skin.
This is the moment I was made for; some gunpowder,
and then a few brief seconds of a cannon ball in flight.
And I wonder how can this be, that something as
hard and heavy as me can soar through the air
like an eagle, even for just a few brief seconds.
And I don’t know how, but as I wait for my fuse to run out,
I say a silent prayer. I think it’s all going to be alright.