He returned from the war looking like a scared wounded animal,
The spark in his eyes gone, like two extinguished smoking candles,
Crutches under his upper arms, balancing carefully on one leg,
Looking like a one legged pink flamingo in a faraway jungle swamp.

His mind scrambled and unclear like an early misty London fog,
A stranger to his wife and children, totally broken in body and mind
Waking up every night from nightmares in a cold sweat, screaming,
He sees bullets flying all around him, his friends bleeding to death.

Going from one therapist to another like a circulating old penny,
But the depression and the memories of the horrors never go away,
From his bed to a rocking chair looking at the far, gloomy horizons
in despair, not knowing how to remedy his tragic present situation.

And then one night, having had enough, he walks outside the door,
His service revolver cocked, clutched tightly in his trembling fist,
With both arms resting on wooden crutches, he calmly walks away,
Tears in his eyes, and a lonely shot breaks the stillness of the night...
---Ron Cohen--- 3/12/18