Sonnet F43.10 – Posttraumatic Stress Disorder

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 theĀ 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


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