In This Growling Silence

The boy was weak and denied
his face, his voice, his body.
He climbed up the hill to look
up higher to soundless sky.
He lived and loved and then lost,
only deaf ears his repost.
Time rolled on and soon the waves
were melting on his salt skin.
The world turned its back on brick
and mortar and shadowed cross
while he retained a hope for
a plaque his name would emboss.
Guns puckered and mortars bled
over his thumping, chalk head,
yet the silence: louder still;
ink pots dry from weary quill.
After, he gasped at the truth:
deafness of man to all sound.
What breaks is never broken
it just comes right back around.


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