Darkness

He sits alone every night, when everything is quiet.

He stares at his keyboard, trying to control his pain

The monitor before him, shines with a pallid light.

He knows that he must write, or he will go insane.

Pictures racing through his mind, of all he has seen and done.

Yet he cannot put them into words of hope, and of desire.

Just as he touches on the keys, the pictures have all gone.

Swallowed deep within his soul, they burn eternal fire.

Outside the night birds seem to call him, out into the dark

The shadows of the darkened room, whisper out his name.

He imagines he sees a spectre, from his torrid past.

It sits in the chair next to him, pointing a finger of blame.

Behind his eyes a picture forms, his soul cries out in pain.

Darkest memories flood his mind, as again he smells the smoke

He looks to see his bloodstained hands, and thinks he is insane.

He shakes his head and closes his eyes, he does not dare to look.

He remembers how it happened, and how he did not care.

He had sacrificed the innocent to escape that hellish place.

The pleadings and the terror are thoughts he cannot share.

The way they lay with tear-filled eyes, staring into space.

They said no one would blame him; it was an act of war

They do not have the nightmares, that haunt his midnight hours.

They do not hear the whispers, or hear the screams and more.

And they do not smell the acrid smoke, or scented jungle flowers.

He bows his head into his hands, in silence his shoulders shake.

His muffled cries then fill the room as the tears run down his face

He wishes things were different, a dream from which he’d wake

He tries to dim the memories of, a darker time, in another darker  place.

Written by

Robin A Spicer

© April 1, 2004