Fitful dreams besiege you
during long, melancholy nights,
you fret and tremble at the recurrence
of so many dreadful sights
you fervently pray will finally fade,

be forever gone…
they became an integral part of you
from that first patrol on.

How can you forget gently cradling

bleeding friends in your arms
knowing nothing you do or say
can erase the grievous harm -
the violation done to them
by this Glorious Thing Called Battle,
which treats those on either side
like so much worthless chattel?

What’s so glorious about wearing
the same malodorous clothes for days,
humping your sweating, weary body
through jungles like a maze,
to finally reach your objective,
dog-tired clear through to the bone,
only to be told, ‘Never mind, boys;
hang it up; come on back ‘home’?

Or worse, ambushed, pinned down,
trying to become one with the dirt,
feeling that your pounding heart
will burst right through your shirt.
You find yourself praying to a God
you suddenly worship and revere,
“Please, Lord, just let me survive
long enough to get away from here!”

No wonder you remember,
whether awake or in sleeping dreams,
the pain-wracked faces of dying friends -
hear their agonized screams.
Time hasn’t erased deeply etched scenes
engraved in your mind
or granted you the healing peace
you’ve tried so desperately to find.

Though not a soul points a finger,
you’ve chosen to shoulder blame;
perhaps, one day, you’ll realize
mere survival is no reason for shame.
Until that blessed day arrives,
not even the bitterest of tears
will keep those dark memories
from recurring through the years.

“We are such stuff as dreams are

made on…”
© Thurman P. Woodfork 7/20/2008