Trauma
Us
The lone dogs of war
Feel safe –
Only when “C” follows “B” and “B” follows “A”.
Our need for things to stay the same,
To have beginnings, middles and ends – is non-negotiable.
For those civilians
Looking through our blasted front doors,
These regimented lives – these routines,
Look restricted at best.
How impossible it is
To explain that this approach
Makes us feel good,
Keeps us sane
And able to face another day.
Soldier, Stray or Survivor,
Our physical form, our truthful tales
Are always irrelevant.
All that matters is the outcome.
Trauma, to the point
Of life ending now,
Lands us in the same trench
Clenching, ground down teeth,
And stabbing true,
At any
Who attempt to drag us from our fox holes.
No ones fault – in the end,
Just life gone wrong
And we cope through continued containment,
Whether at the gym,
In the garden,
Or – alone.
“Traumateous Polemous” (translation – injuries of war)
Was my grandfather’s term.
I sometimes wonder
If he imagined
Such things could occur
Within the sterile walls
Of Suburbia.
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2008