PTSD
The boy went on his senior trip,
The destination Cong Phu Cong;
The man returned home again,
And all wondered what went wrong.
He seemed wary of all he met;
He felt confined behind each wall,
Sure that the casual glance
Was a stare or fighting call.
Gone are the days of youth,
Age has slowed his gait,
But not his cautious sense
Years away from the fear and hate.
He has learned to hide the demons,
To put them in their place;
This weary grizzled warrior,
Now exhibits a gentle face.
He fights his nightly battles,
His days quiet and serene,
Until at last the reaper visits
And takes home another Marine.
Copyright ©April 5, 2006 Fred B. Baker, II
Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork
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