The Aftermath

It's been years,

But the walls don't come down

Life goes on,

Time after time,

But the walls don't come down.

You're sitting on the couch,

Listening,

Not to gunfire and anguished screams,

But to chirping birds and laughter.

You're walking through the park,

Observing,

Not battlefields and casualties,

But children playing.

Your horizon is no longer bleak and grey,

But is bright and colourful and almost divine.

But the walls don't come down.

Your bed is soft,

Not lumpy,

And sleeping late is a luxury you never thought you'd get again.

You wake up,

Comfortably,

Not to the haunted eyes of soldiers,

But to the warm smile of your significant other,

And a loving muttered good morning.

You're sitting at the table,

Lazily eating,

Not cold slop and stale bread on cracking plates,

But hot and fresh bacon sandwiches,

The way she knows you love it.

You're leaving for work,

Not in fatigues, holding a gun,

But in a well-pressed shirt,

Briefcase in hand.

But the walls don't come down.

And you realize,

As the years wear on,

That they never will.

Each time you wake up in a cold sweat,

In the middle of the night,

Dreams of thundering grenades shaking you awake,

You realize they never will.

Each time you stretch on your bed,

And your hands brush the gun under your pillow,

Cocked and locked,

You realize they never will.

Each time you look in the mirror,

And take in the ugly scar,

Running down your throat,

you realize they never will.

Because you can see your hand trembling slightly,

Each time you reach for the coffee mug.

Because you can see yourself jumping,

Startled,

At every relatively loud noise.

And you know,

The walls won't come down.

Ever.