The grief of men

A lone man silently laid in pools of blood and sweat and tears. He had known the men strewn around him just days earlier, and felt their hatred only minutes ago. He knew he had lost, yet his eyes opened to viscera in piles where they once stood. A lone voice spoke out to him. “A kindness, boy. I have done you a kindness, and think of it nothing else.” The being’s voice resonated, as if a god to man, throughout the ship. If this was a kindness, what of its anger? He could not hope to push against this unstoppable force, much less speak up against it. And so he cried. It was bright and sunny, even whilst the man wept, for the world would not care for the grief of a lone man.

A man lies amongst those he does not know in a cell. He is lost, thought dead to all but himself. His leg twisted beyond repair, his mind a prison in itself with endless days in the plain grey cell. His eyes wander, but have nothing to lock to, nothing new to behold. Oh, what he would do to be flying with his old comrades he had seen just a month earlier. An overwhelming feeling overtakes him, hijacking any freedom he has left. He snaps once more, and starts to sob. It was still bright and sunny, even whilst the man wept, for the world need not care for the grief of a lost man.

A man sits amongst friends, yet all their words pass him right by. His morals violated, not by others, but by himself. Harm had come to those he had to protect, and though it was considered “acceptable” with the circumstances, he could not bear to pull the trigger any more. His tears had run dry a long time ago, so he could not cry, but on the inside he had silent tears. Yet still, it was bright and sunny, even whilst the man wept, for the world does not care for the grief of a broken man.

Yet another two men lay silent, but not alone. Grief runs through their frames, having lost those close to them just hours ago. One cradles the other in his arms. The air is still, and their vision stays blurry. No others try to help, for they know they would only make it worse. In the puddle of tears below them, the one cradling sees another self, one not in the present, but one he can truly call himself. The one cradled sees someone else, someone he is but can’t truly call himself. Yet, just as before, it was bright and sunny, even whilst the men wept, for the world must not care for the grief of any men.