The old man could not
demonstrate the odd mechanisms
that drove his mind asunder.
His lips kept quiessitude among
the trenches of muddy secrets -
of the war and other great wars,
both then and now.
His hands, scarred as his memories,
of personal love and crucifixion;
among all ephemeral experiences.
Words, lacking volume in the
throat of an ageing voice,
collecting from bloody salad days,
vexacious in manner and thought,
and the sudden appeal of devout
truth, finds a frail resurrection,
admitting passion and appal,
in the face of the Almighty,
who's power did not intercede
and that unlike those friends
whose dying hands he held...
for God knows what reason
he had alone survived beyond
and for this awkward fact had
never forgiven nor forgotten
any of it.
Christopher James Rhodes.
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