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Poem

He was a man of many voices
All making a disparate whole
And by day you never knew
Which one would take control.
Some days you wouldn't know
The persona on display
Wouldn't know the voice
Or what it had to say.
And he would wander the town
Shouting, screaming, yelling,
Such a story to share,
Wanting folk to hear its telling.
He would stand and berate
Strangers passing by
They couldn't get away
Though they didn't all try.

Some days the voice was
A known one of reason
And then he was a pleasure
Like a good fruit in season.
He didn't know about those other days,
Those of anger pain and frustration,
Just had longs gaps in his memory
Of those, to us, dreaded occasions.
We wondered if he suffered,
If to him it was a mental rape
And was he trapped inside
His voices unable to escape.
He didn't make old bones:
One of those voices decided
And from the Humber Bridge
He and that voice suicided.

We held a silence at his funeral
And then for an old friend's sake
Toasted him long and thoroughly 
At his memorable wake.
He was a man of many voices
But to us he had just one
And we were all so very sad
His voice of reason had gone.
He'd survived tours of Afghanistan,
Had served his Regiment with pride
But he just couldn't fight any more
Those voices from deep inside.
Just another of war’s walking wounded
Physically sound and whole
But deep down inside just
Another  of war’s tortured souls.

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