This poem was written between 22/09-03/10, one of the longer periods I’ve spent on a poem. There are a few images in here that become clearer as you read on, but the main theme the haunting of the past and how we have to put the destructive nature of that out of our minds. Take the last line with a pinch of both sarcasm and truth.
With closed eyes he fights his war:
Father of four, dear husband.
Blurred pyramids, Incan sands,
Dead desert, but in its midst
A rising column of smoke –
Graphite on white paper land.
Follow it! But if he turns
His eyes are sure to be stamped
Impressed with visions; the past
Moments built to stand, helped high
By Satans hand – they won’t fall.
Dust disfigures the carved stone.
Distance does not diminish,
They are still, but they impose
An unwanted failing breath.
For fear he keeps his eyes closed,
But breath settles on the skin,
Mists through your ears, it gets in.
And it is the same with him,
Our father of four is heaped,
Down with the sand in Times pit.
He struggles effortfully
For his God, for his children.
Ah well, we’re only human.