Poem about the lives interrupted after they return from war.
A warrior wears his battle scars
with pride upon his face.
Across his breast a row of stars,
he brings us no disgrace.
He's welcomed with a big parade,
"Hero," they proclaim,
but in his heart the whole charade
pounds within his brain.
The memories haunt his every dream
no sleep is ere content.
Faces; women and children scream;
the weapon's round is spent.
Each life is counted on this earth.
All children are held dear.
Somewhere she who gave him birth,
shall never hold him near.
The terrors implode, consume his life.
He can't work or play or joke.
He has no friends, no job, nor wife,
He's hungry, lonely and broke.
"It's a syndrome," or some big name,
"send him to a shrink. "
There has to be something to blame.
but it's not what one would think.
He is not weak or just depressed.
His demon's drive him mad!
Another "Hero" is sent to test,
we say, "it's just too bad."