I’m sensing a stereotype developing
Warriors haunted with PTSD
Strike fear into their charges’ hearts,
As though the shepherds would devour
Their own lambs
I’m driven to ask
If there is not a soldier
Holed up within himself
Now, now that the champagne is quiet
And the confetti lies dead,
Unwilling to crawl out of his skull to so much
As kill a fly,
Staring out of his cells,
Thinking that to unlearn
The war in his hands
And take up gentleness again
Is not an effort more worthy
Than a quick and quiet self-violence
That might come easier than
Flaring out at an oblivious psychological trigger.
