By Chris Woolnough
There’s a haunted look in our eyes that no one understands, only other soldiers see it.
It’s the blood that’s on our hands only other soldiers can feel it.
The agony and the tears we cry, a brotherhood that shares the guilt, because we didn’t die.
My comrades only know too well, what it’s like to be alone, how to build a wall that numbs the pain, and turn our hearts to stone.
Where every combat veteran suffers from PTSD, because the windows to our soul, saw things that no man should see.
We are the walking wounded, we played a deadly game, and though our days are numbered, we live with daily blame.
We battle with the word of God, children taught to do His will.
Who put the gun into our hands, and taught us all to kill?
We’ve held our tongues in silence and turned our pain within, each day we keep on fighting, in a war we may not win.
And mortal eyes may fail to see that our spirits are long gone, nor do they know the price we’ve paid for the paths we’ve walked upon.