Mosaic

The cohort is destroyed as one in ten
Is clubbed to death by all the other men.
The final judgement. No appeal, no doubt
As from a lottery the name’s picked out.
First one in ten, then one in nine
They fall as Romans do along the line.

‘I’ve gone quite mad,’ he says. ‘My mind’s a fuzz.’
He is not mad. He’s just forgotten
How to remember who he was.

And those who meet him now will only know
The image of the man who is on show.
A man of fractures – they see all the cracks
We know the story and fill in the gaps.

He sits and nods his head, stares into space
They see the tiles. But we still see the face.

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