My Look At PTSD
Long dark robe
Non distinct face
Pungent odor of death
Chilling silence.
Peace be with us
Memory be still
Hurt go away
No tickets for admittance.
Prune the feelings
Oh wonderful death
Hurt no more
PTSD use the scythe
Mystery of the dark
Place your robe around me
No memory of thy face
Draw thy blade from thy sheathe.
Oh dreaded reaper of many
Plunge thy blade deep
For this will be my last few hours
Of memories and non-restful sleep.
© David R. Alexander
April 25, 2005
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