pocket watch
the psychometry of your braille pocket watch
forces me to deduce from a daydreams coarseness
gun shots and noise with the stench of decaying flesh
sirens wail and grenades explode as soil and bodies fly
my eyes are closed as I dwell on the pulse of your life
my minds eye a traveler, a roaming caravans drift
the sleet and smog of time and space hushes an electric calm
I’m in the trenches with you though you can’t see me
my great grandfather, 1916 takes a german bullet to the head
it blew out both his eyes and the bridge of his nose
my granddad had one memory of him with eyes from 1914
as a result of his injury he drowned in his own mucus in 1926
all that was left from his life in the trenches
was a silver braille pocket watch and an old hand painted photograph
its strange but I feel I know him, as if we share an ethereal bond
I have his face, his blood and his memories, we meet in my dreams
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