“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?”—The Mad Hatter, Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass

Not all in their heads, never totally gone.
No medals. No parades. That’s for the dead.
No bullet holes to show their wounds.
Shrapnel Soul…Bullet Wind…Soldier’s Heart…

No bullet holes to show their wounds,
It’s a flash-burn in neural bas relief.
Shrapnel Soul…Bullet Wind…Soldier’s Heart,
A man shakes his head no for merciless weeks.

It’s a flash-burn in neural bas relief,
When synaptic cables snap and bridges fall.
A man shakes his head no for merciless weeks,
On a burn ward for the psyche where shells never stop.

When synaptic cables snap and bridges fall,
They dread the ghost more than physical pain—
On a burn ward for the psyche where shells never stop.
There’s the constant rechecking of arms and legs.

They dread the ghost more than physical pain,
Among palsied scarecrows and purple hearts of stone.
There’s the constant rechecking of arms and legs:
Unhook the chain, it’s time to walk the Black Dog again.

Among palsied scarecrows and purple hearts of stone,
They babble in closed caskets, entombed in all alone.
Unhook the chain, it’s time to walk the Black Dog again:
The concertina coil hums like an unhooked phone.

They babble in closed caskets, entombed in all alone:
No medals. No parades. That’s for the dead.
The concertina coil hums like an unhooked phone:
Not all in their heads. Never totally gone.

Photo by icholakov/Adobe Stock