When he flew in to his home
from his second tour of Iraq,
the thoughts, lay in his mind,
of never going back.

The sights he’d seen, of children
blown out of recognition
and collecting body parts,
surely, this was not his mission?

His beret was replaced
by a cumbersome kevelar helmet.
Being shot at every day,
he tried to adjust his mind set

but he couldn’t come to terms
as his age was twenty one.
With the maiming, death and trauma,
HE, was still a child, a son.

Though his family tried to help him,
he’d never want to talk,
his visions captured, held inside.
He’d built a mental baulk.

For 12 months his life was tranquil,
only training day to day.
Yet the problem with PTSD
It lingers, wants to stay.

A date then came on Orders,
the deployment for tour, number 3.
His trauma raised its ugly head,
and this time he’d be free.

The sights he’d seen, the things he’d done,
they flooded back to haunt.
His mind exploded, anguish, pain,
the visions flooded back to taunt.

“It was all too much,” the Captain said,
“He was his parent’s son.”
They found him prone, like a hostage,
Dead,
head blown off,
With his gun.

Please take the time
To ask yourself,
Is this someone you know,
Who suffered in a silent way,
Whose dreams became a foe and
took his life alone,
to deal with his
Death Throws?