In the dim light of the Legion hall,
We sit, shadows of wars past,
Each of us alone with memories,
Silent bonds that hold us fast.

The scent of old wood, spilled beer,
Conversations hum, glasses clink,
At the bar, we are but specters,
Lost in thoughts, we do not blink.

An old vet, whiskey in hand,
Stares deep into amber hues,
A younger one shifts in his seat,
Eyes that search for hidden clues.

A woman taps fingers on the table,
Rhythms of battles only she can hear,
Silent stories of shared pain,
Carried alone, yet held dear.

We gather not for the drinks,
But for a sense of belonging,
A fellowship in shared silence,
A solace in silent longing.

The bartender, a former Marine,
Moves with ease, understands,
Offers nods and smiles of sympathy,
Comfort found in simple hands.

In this room, we’re not alone,
Though loneliness we might feel,
Each battling demons of our own,
Silent bonds that slowly heal.

The silence heavy, yet profound,
A testament to strength unseen,
A quiet, shared acknowledgment,
Of battles fought, places we’ve been.

In moments of shared silence,
A kind of healing can be found,
Knowing others walk this path,
Even if no words resound.

So we sit, in the dim light,
Alone, yet not quite,
One day, we’ll break the silence,
And share our stories in the night.

Until then, the silence speaks,
A connection deep and true,
Silent bonds in the Legion hall,