PTSD

Pounding through the halls

at all hours of the night;

boots sounding as they fall,

the left one, then the right.

I know that he can't control

his restless wanderings

or his fits without console.

They're simply memories

rising to the surface,

thats what the doctor said,

and he was very certain.

It was all just in his head.

But he hasn't heard the screams 

or seen my Father cry;

He hasn't dreamed the dreams

of men gone out to die.

He hasn't carried children 

with ribs rising through their skin,

or had to spill the bood of men

and carry on. Pretend.

They call my Dad a hero,

a man who fought for good.

But he doesn't hear them.

He doesn't think he should.

He killed many men.

He did what he was told.

And now the war has ended,

he has to pay the toll.

Now the checks come in the mail

like an apology

for all the blood he was forced to spill

and for his lack of sleep.

And people say I'm lucky,

at least he's still alive.

But that seems pretty funny.

He's very dead inside.

The pounding carries on,

never ceasing to sound.

The man I knew and loved is gone.

He was lost and never found.