In a darkened room, he sits, alone,
So dark, he cannot see,
He sits alone and thinks of home,
and how it used to be.
The laughter and the happiness,
of days so long ago.
Now, all there is, is emptiness
A silent, desolate hole.

The blinds, they have been shut so tight
against the garish sun,
Blocking out its fiery light,
from which he used to run.
Outside life carries on its way
But he just cannot find,
The words to cry, to shout, to say
That he’s been left behind.

He remembers the day when he returned,
from the hell-hole over seas,
the angry looks that glared and burned,
oblivious to his tears.
They shook their heads and scorned his cries
Blind to the haunted look,
That lingered in his war-scarred eyes,
As he trembled and he shook.

No hero’s welcome for this man,
Who fought in fire and mud,
Just bitter hate, forever damned,
By hoards of innocent blood.
And still the flashes of fire and light,
that haunt his shallow dreams,
return to him, night after night,
And awaken him with screams.

He weeps for the souls of the lost and dead,
For the pained and tortured ones,
For the men who’s blood was forcefully shed,
And massacred by the guns.
No-one is there to see his tears,
To comfort his aching soul,
To help him confront and face his fears,
Of nightmares long ago.