Private Wars

You lie in the field of battle,
wounded, gloriously alive,
the drumbeats in the distance fading,
whether from victory, loss or exhaustion,
you do not know.

You have done your part,
taken the lows,
gathered the scars,
played fodder to someone else’s hate.
and now it is time

to gather your wounds,
and find your new fields,
a place without blood,
except where it has seeped
deep into your soul coloring
your vision, a thing
not seen by others, but
always in your field of view.

About this poem

Wars, private and public, never have victors. Been there. Done that. Have the scars to prove it.

Tom