From Anzio’s grief, to a park where he plays,
my thoughts are the same everyday.
Connecting the past to the present with time –
wondering how fates are assigned.
A nightmare of shrapnel, death and men’s cries,
I heard him recall ’til he died.
A wispy fresh breeze, giggles, sunshine and smiles,
oh to see happy eyes of a child.
Those torturous days, only part the price paid,
hell’s lost to memories that fade.
So what’s it all for? why go to war … ?
such answers too deep to explore.
Ideals are perfect extremes at their best,
and at worst a futile quest.
As we live in between – those distant extremes …
not forgetting the past is best.
(The Random Poet:041517
www.therandompoet.com)
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