Mentioned In Desptaches Poem by Neil Crawford

The 'No Man's Land'
between reality and fantasy
is scattered with masks...

those we chose ourselves,
those imposed by others,
those left by errant lovers
as they made their escape,
those who found no cover
in the deadly, cruel landscape,
those we should have known
but never made it through,
wounded birds - all flown -
and those we should ashew.

At times we risk the killing fields
to leave or retrieve a disguise
dodging the sniper's bullets
as they trace the whites of our eyes,
self contained demons who fire from
the depths of our souls, wreckage
of frail humans in their flooded,
bloodied foxholes.

And all we ever really grasp
is masks,
masks,
MASKS.