A Friend of the Mist.

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.

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