The old man is gripping his hands
On the damaged, wounded arms of the chair
Sat in the corner of the cold room
Entrenched in health care
Hearing some kind of harsh echo
either over here, or over there.
He remembers

A man, half drowned in the mud
Being pulled down into hell,
in agony.
Arguably better off than the
bombed few that still tell the tale
that still remember, like the old man.
He remembers

A boy, spectacled, blown in two halves
Half dead, hands are still shaking, temporary hell
in agony.
Unimaginable, alien, agony.
Only then, the old man notices
Cracked, chipped skull bones splatter around
All around, seasoning the ground
The glasses untouched.
He remembers

An older man, digging the trench deeper
Diving into the earth, burying himself
to save the trouble of someone else
Gasping the gas, he turns on
the taps, filling the bath
with fluid and blood
in agony.
And the remains
of some other unlearned war
Pointlessly fossilised,
for our eyes to remember, lest we forget
like the old man.
He remembers

In agony.
Half remembered, half forgotten
Although wanting to forget
everything.