He walked through the haze of memorial pain,
seeing the scars, the wounds.
He thought of each glimpse of once-certain gain,
knowing his soul it’d consume.
Onwards, he marched, until silence reigned –
solemn, severe, surrender.
He laid down his arms before stifled pain
beckoned him to remember
the spectres of his friends; they drifted
as mist upon his weary legs.
They bore him up, his spirits lifted
the bottle ’til the bitter dregs.