header image 2  
Poetry from within
   

He Turned Into a Monument






With sad eyes I gaze down upon my comrades. I see them everywhere.

A hospital bed plays host to a friend in a coma, or worse awake, but immobile.

Fixed to the bed like a monolith encased in its foundations.



Still.



Maybe they lie in the soil.

Grave after grave. Line after line. Headstone after headstone.



Still. Silent.



Or perhaps they rest unknown.

Only the memories of friends and a cenotaph to mark their life.

Till the memories fade and only the cenotaph remains.



Still. Silent. Solid.



I see those ‘lucky’ enough to return home who have tucked their memories away.

As the memories prevail they are packed tighter and tighter.

Layer after layer. Year after year.

Memories, hidden in their heart, which pressure and time have fossilised.

Fossil – fancy word for a stone with a memory of what was once alive.



Still. Silent. Solid. Cold.



The end is always stone.






© Sep 2014

Sam Steele