Ghosts of War

There’s a photo I keep in a box in the hall,

my grandfather’s gaze, a soldier so small.

The sepia whispers of battles untold,

a story of courage, yet to unfold.

At dinner, we gather, the laughter flows free,

but the war clings like smoke, a thick memory.

I catch the faint scent of gunpowder dreams,

where shadows of men dance in silence, it seems.

Each tale spins around, yet there's something amiss,

for amidst the bravado, I feel the abyss.

A legacy etched in the lines of his face,

reminds me of struggles that time can't erase.