A heart tattooed to your chest,
a mask to distract from the scars of disease and war,
to hide your human weakness
from the shadows of souls pacing the halls.
Your handshake was the only link
to the strength and resolve in your past
because your endless tirades merely unveiled
your overwhelming sadness.
My mind could never create such cinematic horror,
which exists within your intrusive thoughts each day.
I dream of a power to reach within the fabric
of your mind and extract each traumatic event.
As I sit and ponder,
how I would have fought to save you:
to return your breaths and heartbeats,
had I found you dancing from the rafters.
I thank your sadness yet again,
for giving me a glimpse into the reality
of your ongoing torment,
so that I might try to pull you
from the dark hell of your memory.
Because the solace that I find in sleep,
the wearily somnolence of night watch and residence,
destroys your mind each night
where you resume war
and relive the atrocities of your past.
