C r u e l

When you're deaf, it's hard to hear

The bullet shells for last

As blind men dry their bitter tears

And dream about the past.

A lame man stares out at the sea

And wishes he was blind-

Not seeing what he cannot be

But fate is cruel, not kind.

An authors hands are dark from print.

He scribbles, jots and writes.

His hands hold that, a chronic tint-

A memory of fights.

He sees what he can never tell-

The writing etched against his skull.

I was reading up the deaths of our boys, in one of the comic universes, and this sprung to mind.