My friend came back from war the other day.

On a stretcher.

Raving about guns and gases, and I betcha

He for sure got his fair share of shell shock

Or post-traumatic stress disorder, as they call it nowadays.

 

I went to visit him in the hospital.

Apparently, his condition was, eh, not simple.

All that time in the trenches and stenches of rotten feet

And the sounds of anguish and languishing had left him beat

And his mind a bloody mess, broken and bumpy and brittle.

 

He rambled on and on and on

About battles, and guns, and Huns, and bombs

Occasionally he would start thrashing 

As if the demons in his head started clashing

And I knew, at that point, he was long gone.

 

His mother wept.

His father rolled in his grave, I guess.

His girlfriend brought him flowers every day

Only for him to tear them up

With his teeth.

Because his limbs had been blown away.

 

The doctors wondered if this was simply insanity.

Surely shell shock wouldn’t result in this level of depravity.

The only thing holding his brain back is gravity

From wandering into space and beyond. Oh, the tragedy!

 

I pray and wish for his suffering to end

The pain he endures should befall no friend

I grimace and cringe in horror

As I begin to wonder

Perhaps he would be better off…dead?

 

As I climb drearily into bed

In my quiet, peaceful homestead

I think about him

As he stays forever in his head.