2.26.2018
in wartime guns rattle,
ied’s level the guys next
to you, and some come
home in pieces,
while others in only guises
and varieties of a whole.
why me, why not me
why them, and I’m
still here
haunts;
survivor guilt infecting
the soul.
late in life it strikes again
about friends who ended up,
at the side of the park
we played cards in and smoked
as wanna-be-thugs,
with a needle in their arm;
or just fell down between
the stacks in college
for no apparent reason
still dressed in their
three-piece suit.
not to mention all the poor
and hungry and bombed
and tortured and maimed
in all those other parts
of the world
or just down the street.
and why me, why not me
why them, and I’m
still here
still haunts.
survivor guilt.
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