A PRIVATE BATTLE

(Written in response to the number of deaths in war-torn Afghanistan, this poem is "designed" as a missile. Unfortunately, blogspot, does not allow me to centre align the same.)

The war is long past…
But the scars remain
Itching and hurting
Every day.

The war is long past…

But the nightmares haunt
Tormenting and terrifying
Every night.

The war is long past…

But the shrapnel tears
Burning and fragmenting
Every movement I make.

The war is long past…

But the gunfire resounds
Exploding and shelling
Every thought I take

The war is long gone…

But the wounds are fresh
Bursting and bleeding
Every day.

The war is long gone…

But the darkness is dank
Stifling and suffocating
Every night.


The war is long gone…

But the muscles are tired
Cramping and shackling
Every movement I make.

The war is long gone…

But the smoke is dense
Clouding and darkening
Every thought I take.

The war is long gone, for ages past
But its dark memories will always last
For however much I try to take pride
My tears of hurt and anguish I cannot hide

For which parent cannot, for a son he proudly sent
Pay for that piece of hatred with which a young life was spent?

Yes, the war is long past, into oblivion it has since gone
But, for me - a parent - a private battle begins each morn.