Where do the stories go? The ones of troopers from bygone eras, having missed the chance to portray an account like the others – their take of the story rehashed in their own mind; once over, once more.
Perhaps they scrawled it in a notebook for safe keeping – trusting they’d get the chance to disclose it, before it’s singed to ashes by the onslaught; their record now a particle of the soot.
Although the story wasn’t material, one that can cease at the torrent of conflict, its burrowed deep within the mind of the curator – will it be stripped from the repository when their soul is bisected from its cage and crosses to the other side; the tough dichotomy of life?
Should the grave embrace it, the story that is? – will the silence of the ‘hereafter’ warehouse their strident compilations of inward lesions? Indeed they all should be unshackled, just as much from the secreted duress as the feasible.
YOU ARE READING
The Lucid Memoir
PoetryAn Assortment of Poems and Observations with perhaps a tint of personified disclosure at times.
