The Fallen
They drank all afternoon
in a well of voices
that rose in noise from places
too mangled for language.
What came out was shelled
in a chorused cry
venting the stifled pain
of unhealed wounds.
Just before closing
in the thick, acrid air,
yells were lifted high
in hymn that, for some, spilt
in the gutters
of their lonely lives.
No-one listened
or saw into the haunted distances
of a war that hung before
their glazed, bloodshot eyes.
Many died there
too far away for anyone
to reach them, even by pity.
Some were mocked.
There are no survivors.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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