His eyes are glittering in his shrunken face;
his gestures tense.
All day he runs and runs
and cannot find sanctuary for his corruscated soul,
not on the treadmill,not with his private priest;
not in the arms of his wife
who bears her own tormented dreams.
‘Out, out, vile spot!”
No comfort can be found in all they own,
or in all his frantic business.
He tries to find peace with in
but he can not.
For Awe and Terror cannot be forgot.
He can’t escape the horror of what he did,
or those that he drew in.
At war within himself he plunders the world anew
and clamours again for war
c) Ingrid Andrew <> Hearts Song