Colin F. Jones

PTSD

A recrudescence of indicants hasten him to his room,
An avolation to silence; seeking an easier path to doom,
Sanctum Sanctorum; shadows isolate him from the light
To be alone and there alone with the demons of his plight.
Comes from it deep lassitude head plagued by lack of sleep,
As through his blood from brow to brow hideous spectres creep.
He works the keyboard frantically attempting to retain,
Some scrap of proof to quell their doubts that he suffers pain.
He tries to produce in verses what his inner eyes do see,
To capture all the demons, and set his tired mind free.
But illusive and aloof they seem, as they pass away…
To bide their time with great finesse to return another day,
When he is most vulnerable; when his mind is clear,
When he almost finds it comfortable to allow his loved one near.

From the chloroform of sleeplessness his hebetude is great,
As he struggles to direct himself to that which he can relate.
He knows that he is angry though he can tell nobody why,
And he wishes in his lethargy that he could curl up and die.
Sleep will not present itself and wakefulness is dire,
And though he tries to stoke it, thoughts no longer fuel his fire.
Even friends desert him, for he clouds their sunny day
But they do not understand him or why he is feeling this way.
Unresponsive to their coaxing so despondent and withdrawn,
He feels that he’s rejected thus is left lonely and forlorn.
Alienation with discourtesy surrounds him with remorse,
That from all his obligations he seeks a quick divorce.
But with gradual depletion the sordid cycle ends
He surfaces to acknowledge those who think they are his friends