The War Of A Warrior

It was a warm day,

Alas I could feel the chills.

It was a sabbatical for me,

But still I couldn’t get a kick out of it.

I fear that I’m haunted by the ghosts of my past,

The war cries which now make me aghast.

Others perceive that the cuts on my palms have been healed,

Only I can see dried blood on my palms,

The blood of my brothers,

The gore of my combatants.

As I close my eyes I visualise smoke,

The fumes which arose from piles of dead bodies.

I’m at the war with myself,

As I’m unable to differentiate between silence and peace.