Henry Bentley went to war
missed the man he was before

somewhere in the desperate strife
each time that he drew his knife

sliced bits of his soul off clean
in his eyes a ragged gleam

let you know he’d lost his way
wandering towards another day

through fogged air and cloudy glass
half-recalled a distant past

blood and poppies fill the field
petals lush, the sin concealed.

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