A Combat Therapy
By John Gregory Evans
© 5/12/2020 8:25:38 AM
There remains a deadened, freezing, almost an anesthetizing
sense of dread upon my fingertips and hands, reaching deep into my leg’s nerves,
shattered spinal cord, peeled away as one peels an orange.
Walking, now a challenge, con-fusion of the fusion, cervical cord,
Ruptured and bruised, arrogance of the humanity factor.
Pain within the eyes like lightning fingers to the crown – of God.
At night, now, I lay awake, not to pity myself,
But to personify the relevance for the un-forgotten
Accretion of gunpowder residues, a controlled combat chaotic state of mind,
Where courage lay found. And I from self to Self-consumed, in a
Rage of fright, carries forth another day of exile, deep with the soul-hunter’s night,
I discover my contribution for a patriotic chore, my final thought for Uncle Sam,
Lay claim to stating, no more, no more!