Awol At the Aorta Part 1
Awol on the aeorta,
I've built a wall around my heart,
Trying to suppress that which is grieving,
But it's still ripping me apart,
The night falls, elevating whispers,
From the silent gasps and muffled breaths,
Of a young lady in her twenties,
Crying alone and quite depressed, (left in distress)
I recognize her, I recognize this,
A mirrored scene like deja vu,
A woman weaping for a fallen soldier,
Only this time, I am you,
Those last moments start flickering,
Upon the gloomy, dark display,
Of closed lids, soggy eye-lids,
Projecting everything on replay,
My hands grasping the sheets,
My mind on forward and rewind,
As if on cue, I hear you too,
Amongst my stifled cries
My conscience replaying the voice,
Hunting me now is the sound,
Of those uttered words, that still disturb,
You sounding so sure, it's resound
"Call me, I'll be here", I hear you tell me,
Though your presence now lost,
A call too late, maybe on the wrong date
My sanity (it) shall cost,
"Call me, I'll be here", again it echoes.
Best said, forgiveness I now seek
My heart racing, my memory chasing,
Every essence of you makes me weap,
I still remember you crying in Daddy's ears,
Moments before he passed me the phone,
Yet when we spoke you changed your tone,
For me you wanted to be strong,
How alarming it was to hear you cry,
Like a leap year, (it was) a rare occaission
You stood tall and with pride, taking fear for a ride,
Standing at a whopping 5'11,
But it seems one day on Friday the 13th,
While you were stationed on the army base,
A gun was triggered, by the love of your life,
Which continues to baffle me to this day,
It was he, who you cried for when speaking to father,
A lost soldier conquering demons of the mind,
A mental affliction called PTSD
Deteriorated his spirit over time,
He was a soldier in pain, with PTSD,
Even more a father, a spouse, in distraught,
His sweet baby, The heart of his world,
Now the source of his paranoid thought,
Persistent accusations of cheating,
And all the places his mind did go,
The struggle he bore to fight those demons,
Now just part of the media’s show.
I try to find a level of understanding
But this battle I fight on my own,
As guilt consumes me, recurrent thought
Why hadn't I dialed your phone...
In time
Copyright © Shawn Oussifi | Year Posted 2018
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