Eminence Grise

Eminence Grise

Images, sounds, and smells ...
  a xeric rhapsody that orchestrates my
  thoughts and feelings since my return.

The dry desert landscape, once so hauntingly beautiful,
now has morphed into hell and won't release me ...
  won't release those that I left behind
    won't release the living or the dead.

Like wind swept sand abrading my mind,
the pain and the memories have worn
away reality, leaving me in an Abu Ghraib
of my own making.
  NO!  I didn't make it ... I just reside in its torture.

I chuckle at the irony. The razor blade looks like a dog tag,
complete with my name and, soon, blood type.
Funny, I had forgotten what it felt like to laugh.

The silver blade sparkles and then slowly writes
freedom across my arm ...
  The warm garnet liquid runs down my arm,
    pooling in my hands.

I feel the pain trickle from me, the images darkening,
the sounds fading, the faint ferrous smell of release
overwhelming the pungent past ...

Funny how the darkness has gotten so cold ...
  like the desert at night.

I smile.

Notes

An entry in "Troublesome Musings"  [18+]

This is based on an article I read about the increasing rate of suicide among returning vetrans... and on my own experiences a generation ago.

eminence grise - a person who wields power or exerts influence behind the scenes
xeric - of, pertaining to, or adapted to a dry environment.