Moving silently among our streets,
Like zombies, with faces bleak.
They were popular with us in times of war.
But now that there's peace, we will ignore.
The darkness with which their minds are now filled,
Memories of the soldiers they killed.
Like children, they're helpless against this disease,
And we, hearing all of their pleas,
Don't help them, saying we don't have the time
But really, we think they're covered in grime.
We think war has contaminated them.
So they just give up, give in.
And they will never be the same again.
(This is just about PTSD acquired through war, because I half understand that. I know there's lots of other types, but I wrote about war.)
