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No way to confirm or
confront. So his
mind raced
forward and back. Faces of the dead. His
buddies
his foes, himself. Collateral damage now, an
officer, bystander with a tray of coffee,
takes it in the face.
As the young man, the soldier who knew too little
and had seen too much
was hauled off to sickbay
to face his future.
A medical discharge, a burned-out home,
a happy
mother
Shell shock, combat fatigue,
post-traumatic stress
disorder
Sad-Sack casualties continue to haunt us,
deployed here at home.
Sixty years ago they returned
by ship.
Sixty minutes ago they flew home from
the Middle East.
Sixty years past, something in my dad's
head
snapped.
And right now in the desert
you can hear the ticking
of the bomb,
the weapons of mental destruction
that will gradually descend and then
explode.
Wounded souls coming soon
to a job site, a hospital, a jail cell,
a living room
or a house of worship
near you.
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