The wrench
The ripping and tearing
Of another one lost
Another soldier down

Jealous of the release
Of the relief
Of being free on the tide that carries hopeful ships to sea

Mourning the passing of people not dead
Lost though, gone for good
Or gone for bad, gone for worse

There is only quiet here now
Low, deep loss of laughter and light
Meaning ever dwindling and decaying quicker than we were ready for

It’s not the betrayal
The leaving of kin
It’s the empty flatness of dreams half lived and lives interrupted

We sigh and breathe and drink and die little deaths
Little, inconsequential deaths that no one could see but us

A lost limb
Not coming back
It’s tiring
Always fighting for a world that never seems nearer
No matter how hard we throw ourselves at the bars

Go then
Fleeting spirit
That brought us joy
That fed the hope
But now leaves that sour taste in our mouths – like old pennies
and the blood we licked from our wounds