P.O.W. (Prisoners Of War) Poem by Heather Marie Mortimer

With your head, rest soft, against my thigh
I feel the weight and debt of all these wars.
I heard so many stories in your sigh,
Between unsettling rest and settling scores.

You start to tell me of battles
But your voice keeps fading away.
I hear the clink of your shackles
Echo with each word that you say.

But these chains are not meant
For the living, my dear.
So let them break,
We will no longer have so much to fear.

It is the future we fight for:
Not the past; Not for peace...

And we are only as brave
As the ghosts we release...