From sweaty jungles and gritty sands
To stinking trenches in far off lands
From tunnels built for smallest man
To shrapnel skies in a flying can
Fighters, soldiers, sailors all
Have stood for us when heard the call
Some paid the price that war demands
Or made down payments with legs and hands
With determined chin they try to heal
But no one told them just how to feel
When coming home to peace and love
And to never fearing the skies above
To never need check behind each door
Or take a dive and hit the floor
When sounds so common to you and me
Fill that same vet with anxiety
The creaking floor, the coffeepot dripping
Could slowly start his facade to slipping
What once was calm and loving man
May have changed in him what he can’t understand
And without more help, understanding and grace
That saddened troop may have to face
A jury of 12 that have no clue…
Of what PTSD and war can do to you
They’ll convict without hearing all of the facts
And call him a Rambo because of his acts
The 12 would forget he would have laid down his life
For every one’s mother, brother, sister and wife…
They’ll sit on the court benches dictating his end
Till the gavel hammers in the final judgment to rend
And the life of a hero is cut short once again
But not from the actions in wars he’s been in
You see War called the shots and it knew it would win
To a troop whose coming home was his only real sin.
Cheyenne, WY