After the war moved in, some went numb and never returned. Some emitted the atmosphere of carnival, others of tombs. Either way, what rattled was the shells of battle shocks, tiring over time while inside them the minds and lives of us where it rained fire and none could remove their boots, an endless waiting while covered in successive barrels of earth but not relief. We saw things and heard them, carrying on.
this moved me and I wrote a little something … thank you
https://memoirsofmadness.blog/2024/12/06/lighthouse-of-hope/
Mangus, what evocative imagery. Especially haunting is the line “. . . there are no bullets, no sound to remind you that you’re not home.” This is one of those lines that offers an array of possibilities depending on how the light catches. Thank you.