Harsh is the wound for the body,
A disaster, too, for the soul.
Distant discourse from the literati,
Whose talking lacks self-control.
The final aim—heal the hurt,
If needed, stitch up the wound,
Skip the rational suggesting just desert,
Healing is where I am tuned.
For here are humans, mere boys,
Training in the test to wait,
While inside keeping a quiet poise.
Old men, fuzzy, decide their fate.
Comes, of course, the days of war,
Darkness, flashes, and the wound.
Destiny changed forever more,
Dare I call this a burial ground?
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.