tinged with stain and running ink,
dried and bubbled stiff,
unopened, sadly bereft of care,
and sentiments like a haze of expectancy,
hover as some halo,
a glow of invitation unrequited.
A sepia picture by their side,
two lovers, smiles wide,
imbued with life’s ardor,
tender their embrace and candor,
promise like an eagle soaring,
hope in every breath they took,
every moment loved.
For her his letters never read,
for him a silence of pure dread,
clasped around the neck,
stifling life from every doubtful breath,
she, passed on, her heart gone
For him on the front lines,
no news or letters possible,
but he continued writing,
his every pain and fear
surrounded in death and tears
that took him to the brink of sanity,
his every letter his only link to love.
Then one morning a shell hit bunker nine,
a random hit that robbed him of his life,
torn limb from limb,
his notebook on the ground, half a letter,
his yearning to be home with her,
away from all this madness,
her to soothe his heavy brow.
Now those letters sit upon a bedside table,
unread, filled with love and yearning,
and in heavens embrace
perhaps the two are found,
far from the pain of life, bombs and strife,
together two souls robbed of all they dreamed,
now in painless ease, of being.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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