Solemnly, he sits in his leather chair as time moves slow and thin, staring at the mantle piece,

The haunted captures have seen him shrivel and bend,

Monotone photographs rest easy on the mantle,

With ghosts for unattended company, and for friends.

He wasn’t there alone. He had his captains, generals, friends.

A collage of suffering that lingers in his home.

He had a job to do so why should he cry?

A generation on the wall.

He has grown numb, Or so he believes.

They call him brave and peaceful,

But plenty of violence makes him this still

His mind remains solitary as the chains of time are held by his friends.