[I’m just experimenting to see what I can get away with writing here…
Comment with the other piece on this blog that this is a rewriting of, and I’ll send you a postcard. Cos why not]
The rising sun ironic,
A battle bathed in sunlight,
Our hero lives with nothing left.
All around him friends lay still,
Ne’er to breathe again.
Battered bodies lined the hill
Broken brothers met their end.
He gathers their possessions,
The trinkets for the wives back home,
Who scream as he approaches
His presence news – he walks alone.
Now night-time sees him screaming,
As he lies awake in bed.
For friends he lost and men he killed,
Swim endlessly around his head.
A tortured soul, a plague of mind,
Glance to the shadows – what to find?
Losing faith and losing time,
The reaper creeping close behind.
An emptiness that swallowed all,
Crept slowly through his veins.
Bleak futile obsolescence,
That would drive a man insane
And losing incandescence, life:
The oft-extinguished flame.
[We’ll work out a way for me to subtly get your address don’t worry]