How many graves can be dug for the days
That refuse to allow a moment’s rest?
Is there a pit deep enough to hold in place
Terrors too plain to ever confess?
Should be silent questions shake the rattle
Before shouting demands of sight and sense
Insisting my mind be brought back to battle
The tireless souls of should be past events.
There’s no single memory or perception
To be trusted from the worst of this life
When I travelled the paths of destruction
And learned the stern lessons of human strife.
Until a crypt is found for times long dead
They’re breathing heart beating in my own head.
Posttraumatic Stress Disorder