Thomas Albert Fox

"English Wounds: an autobiography southwards"

Lest We Forget to Forgive

Don't worry about them, the dead meek,
Thrown to silence with a slither and a shriek,
Their voices were torn from their mouths apart
Wherein to inhabit their tunnels dark.

Don't worry, they'll not rise up and speak,
Hacked off by death they're far too bloody weak;
They can never return to their old haunts,
To occupy our air with empty vaunts.

Don't worry, getting killed was just a freak
Of arms, whose outstretched eyes did pitiless sneak
The leaving dead who, unencumbered by forgiving,
Cannot forget all they owe to the living.

Don't worry, they won't have a fit of pique
And hard on our hearts their dead spasms wreak;
They've left it to us and our fine parades
To drape the dead through our deepest charades.

Don't worry, sniff at their dead poppy week,
Twist up your faces when the silent reek,
Forgive to forget all these unearthed fears,
Dead good at foregoing their undone years.

Don't worry, it's only about dead meat
Penned into silence with a pulsing beat
Of words that stun and slip, slither and seep,
As I prod my way through this hide and seek.

Don't worry, the dead have no voice to speak
Even as we hang them on this butcher's spike
The last thing we'll hear is their silence break;
Despite this, their smiles are still
Strangely meet.

© Just Words Ltd

NOTES with Volume One CONTENTS

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