Left Unread
For every Helmet for my Pillow–
How many memoirs go unpublished?
Their poems left unrecited.
The words long written down
never to be bound by our cultural consciousness;
left to rot– in their pockets,
slowly washed away with crimson blood
or blown to shreds from falling rockets.
Their silent echoes hushed by the battlefield;
the shadows of their memories
never illuminated nor revealed.
The writings of the dead;
their remains forever left unread.












