PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Seven thirty-eight in the morning, waiting for the train that will take him home. Sitting alone on a bench, with his complete uniform still on, he is dirty and his boots can tell a complete story of where he has been. In his eyes you could see the reflection of what he has been through. You can tell he comes from a long trip, but his luggage does not represent this. Everyone that passes by tells him, “Sir, thanks for your service. God bless you”, he stares at them for a while and then lowers his head.  
Eight o’ clock, the train arrives at the station, he picks up his luggage and approaches the train calmly. The train worker greets him, he does not listen and continues walking to his seat wishing he never arrives to his destination. He closes his eyes for a while until he enters a heavy sleep. The train stops, he wakes up and gathers his things and with reluctancy he steps down the train. He can not bear the idea that he is back home, back to the town that brings memories of a life that is long behind him. Someone is waiting for him outside the station, this common looking man that greets him with a “Good morning Sgt. Collins, may I take you home?” He nods, and enters the old Beetle without saying a word. You can tell something is wrong with him.  

He arrives to this old house surrounded by farms, the perfect place to forget but that also sparks so many memories in his mind. He sits on the front porch steps and removes his worn out boots. He struggles to open the front door, you can tell that no one has opened it in a long time. He walks in, and goes straight to the kitchen, opens the top cabinet and grabs an open bottle of whiskey, takes out an old fashioned glass from the cabinet below and pours himself a double. Walks to the living room, without leaving the bottle behind, and sits on that old sofa with his bare feet on the coffee table in front. Surrounding him, you can see a ton of frames with pictures of a woman but she is no longer there.

After a couple of drinks, he starts to walk around the living room, staggering through the furniture, picking every picture frame and throwing them to the floor while tears run down his face. He gets to the last frame remaining but decides to keep it, walks down the corridor that takes him to the master bedroom, opens the door to find a bed that denotes that no one has laid on it since he left. Enters the bathroom, turns the shower on. While the water reaches the right temperature, he takes off his uniform. He thinks that maybe a hot shower could also wash his memories off and end the suffering, but it fails. Maybe war did not kill him because he was already dead inside.