his hands
are soft
and pale,
and holding them
reminds me
of what is good in the world.
hands
such as those
were not meant for hurling grenades,
and wading through waist-deep mud.
no;
not those hands,
not his hands.
i can see them, now;
cold
soiled,
battered and bruised and
unrecognisable -
torn apart by a world that never cared for a soul as sweet and gentle as his.
war has that way about it.
title taken from spring offensive
YOU ARE READING
In Different Skies
Thơ caAnd in his eyes The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak In different skies [the titles of the chapters are taken from Owen's poems and i do not own them. some sections aren't poetry and some are written in verse. i write these completely off t...
