PTSD

The soft whisper of a butterfly wing 

And the hushed conversation of the rustling grass

Call me to the garden swing,

Where I can reminisce about my past.

 

I watch the evening sky transform

From blue to red to pink and orange.

On the horizon I spot a storm

Raging and approaching fast.

 

I can hear the distant thunder

Like a firing squad discharging.

I remember looking for cover

While my battalion was marching.

 

Birds fly overhead

Like tiny bomber planes.

I had wished that I was dead,

Rather than in pain.

 

The storm is coming closer 

And I can see flashes of light.

Jsut like the ones I saw 

On that dark and dreary night.

 

A chill runs down my spine 

As I think of that fatal battle.

The memory of that time 

Still makes my bones rattle.

 

I lie awake till dawn 

Because I am on my own.

My comrades are long gone 

And I am left alone.

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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