Little did they know that elders had been in the war long before. What they had seen and encountered made them silent warriors. Things that were so gruesome that the men pushed them to the deepest darkest places of their souls. Places where no one was aloud to enter, a place that although trying to forget the horrors they had witnessed was impossible as trying to rid ones self of a tattoo. What ever effort they tried, it always left a scar, some deeper than others.
Institutions were opened at the last turn of the century for men who were so broken and disturbed. It was a place where Doctors and Psychologists examined their minds and found some so disturbed that it was impossible to bring them back to reality.
Many years later those who survived and went on to marry and have families, those who remained single for whatever reasons. They settled into old age and nearing the end of their lives, stories came forth of the brutal, unspeakable things that they and their mates and colleagues suffered or saw before their eyes.
Oh, If I could gouge my eyes out and be blind
My soul would still hold the pictures of my hell
Only death, I live in hope will wash away the memories.
Young men in their prime cut off before the wrinkles
of time could etch laughter on their face.
How sweet it could have been.
To marry my girl and laugh in love. To grow old and wise.
But war had another plan and I had to trek that road.
Stealing my years on earth
Ripping hope from my flesh and leaving me.
To carry the pictures of war to my grave.
May the young never be put to the test of the forbidden hell.
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