As wounded soldiers convalesce
and diagnostic tools progress,
your menace, Post Traumatic Stress,
must be endured.
We’re seeing more and knowing less
on how you’re cured.
For though the body may be whole,
when memories exact their toll
on thinking, you erode the soul
with frozen screams.
Anxiety usurps control
of conscious streams.
O malady of modern days,
you paint a picture that portrays
demolished dreams, a deep malaise
that’s darker than
the radiance of hope ablaze
in heaven’s span.
But, lifting up each terrified,
mistreated child, each battered bride
and broken man to safety’s side
above the storm,
we pray that healing far and wide
becomes the norm.
2012 Mary Boren