PTSD

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The man that I knew and the man that remains,

And the man that returned are none and the same.

Like the silk flower aesthetic and bright,

It carries no scent, no joy nor delight.

Pretty but empty and shallow and bare,

Hollowed and soulless and burdened with wear.

At night he turns and calls me their names,

And shakes me and screams guttural cries laced with blame.

He jumps and throws elbows and punches and shouts,

Then wakes with a start, but he’ll never find out.

He feels so undeserving of a smile merely shame,

Polluting pure with dirty hands, he just can’t love the same.

Day by day I watch him sit and look through empty eyes,

Lost forever in his world where everybody dies.

An exercise in futility trying to stay the storm,

Let him flounder and he’ll come back, just be there to keep him warm.