My father never came home from the war
Yes, he did come back to his house
but the war only followed him
Ghosts of soldiers
from both sides,
innoccent people with hollow eyes
stalked him
he would battle with them in
his head
take the battle to me with
his hand
The whoosh of an assailing
hand, the sign of an impending bomb
Flashes of pain
grit
blood
Black. Blue. Purple.
Badges of surviving
through past battles
If my father had come home from the war
he would be proud
of the soldier
he made me
I keep marching through
each battle
only hoping I
won’t become another ghost to haunt him
Another casualty of
war.