Saturday 22 June 2013

Terminal Glory (poetry)

***WARNING**** This piece of material contains references to suicide.

Terminal Glory

No one can help, no one understands,

the damage he does with his very own hands.

The self-torturing mind that destroys his soul;

not staying alive another day is this soldiers only goal.


This six-foot tall soldier, so outwardly strong,

his friends see only what he show's; but how they are wrong.

Coward he screams to the target at his front,

his fists tightens as he punches the mirror, with a grunt.


The blood drips off his hand, cut and bare,

his reflection no longer but the judgement still there.

Shards on the floor like a magnet to metal,

he clutches them with need, this could be fatal.


Free at last as he breathes his last air,

as he guided it through his skin, the release was there.

The soldier at rest, no more pain or torment,

his brothers in arms bow their heads at his final lament.


PTSD, the boffins labelled it well,

he'd rather have been dead than to live in his hell.

Disguised his pain with their shameful branding,

what it showed, Doctor; is that you had no understanding.


He wished he was the one butchered in the sand,

to absorb the blast from the bastards in Helmand.

His last bluey he claimed, "It should have been me."

he didn’t need the laudable glory; just for someone to agree.


The guilt he felt, he could breathe no longer,

his time was borrowed, his need for justice got stronger.

His cries often heard from high above in heaven,

by those he left who loved him who had to carry on living.

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