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PTSD (Remove filter)

THE SPOILS OF WAR

And the troops go marching proudly by

as she wipes a tear from her weary eyes,

the one that she seeks, she will never again hold

for he died at his post; he was thirty years old.

 

The colours fly high on a cool autumn breeze

as man and boy march with well practiced ease,

so glad to be home after being so brave,

with flags overhead and not covering their graves.

 

She...

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ironylossPTSDTRAUMAwar poetry

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