broken pens, burned papers
some stories mostly untold

he watched a train
stopped, salvoed rain
peppered around,
pluming towers of mud.

he grabbed a second gun,
running through the black
hiding in holes, bringing
the day – he gave back
the wrong one, got fined.

he lost a son to war,
some years later.

some memoirs, a medal,
old memories – quiet.

“Thalassocracy “

Watered fading histories,
misted failings,
forgotten pasts and worlds
laughing shrinking names
shirking foreign shores
where Bran’ll pass his time
all wrong and stagnant,
burning his way
through the blurred
edge of stories,
from elven islands
of hosted royalty
to darkened shores
of emerald islands,
and the fading skeletons
landing there.