Packed in the filthy holds of the ship, POW’s huddle together in darkness. Day and night, fused together, suspend the men in a timeless abyss. On the fifteenth morning, blue dawn breaks, and the planes come. The men, at last, are liberated, from the stinking ship, from captivity, from life. Unseen by tortured eyes for two long weeks, the moon covers itself with clouds, and weeps.
For my Uncle Pete.
The prompt? Moon