All that Remains

Of Letters and Bombs

Ink poured through him, across his skin

Staining the once white paper

The blood of soldiers mixed with his own

Left smeared red strokes, never forgotten

Kids, many kids, crammed into a room too small

A globe held in between his paper hands

As he told of his stories

And the stories of many others; the stories of the world

One kid, new and young, came into his life

A starry-eyed son

Made his eyes crinkle and heart swell with pride

A new life, after his old, forgotten one

Boom

The world around him shook

Those he knew felt it as well

Each of them not knowing which day to be their last

Some, like him, forced to serve, pulled from school

Stories were what covered him, with each new blood drawn

Another mark on his journey

From farm family to scholar to vet to father

New lines of text swirled across his body with each passing light

Letters home, yet more stories

The ones that he could not bear to store on his skin

He wrote them out and left them

Other sentiments of distant love being delivered

And upon return, he came and built a family

Cared for the boy of starry eyes, and held the strong hands of his wife

Recounting stories and times of when he had less

And being ever grateful

Sometimes, when he was alone

His nerves would wear, and he would think

Remember, recall all of the things he did

The story of his life, the most important one right over his heart

And sometimes I wonder

How someone with paper skin

Could bear so many stories

And yet, never be torn