Jun 20, 2024
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How many memoirs go unpublished?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.
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