There’s a bullet with my name on it.
It may be in the magazine.
It may be in the chamber. Or … it
may be … in the air … unseen.

How long until romantic notions of seeing the world and being all you can be
surrender to the unbearable reality of PTSD’s insanity?
How long, if ever, until the romantic notion of the glory of being a warrior be
relegated to the dust bin… of history?