PTSD
Silent wails, invisible wounds
Within the shadowed chambers of a mind's disarray,
In darkened domains where spectral echoes stay,
Autism's spectrum—a tangled skein—
Spins susceptibility, delicate as dusk's faint wane.
Here, trauma finds a fertile ground,
And PTSD, a ghostly fiend,
Besiege the halls of fragile minds.
Whispered woes in day or night, the silent wail
Of females, more pronounced in quiet travail,
An arras of pain in social strands—
Bullying's bitter craft, exclusion's cold hands.
These are the sorrows that thread the anima,
Binding their nature in chains of stress,
And from these seeds, the blooms of fear arise.
The intersection of these weary ways
Calls for the vigilance of watchful gaze,
For early signs, the tremor in the hand,
The shadow that dims a child's glance.
Clinicians and caregivers must heed this call,
Aware of trauma's lurking thrall,
Ready with balm for the wounded umbra.
In the quiet rooms of therapy,
Where light seeps in through cracks of care,
Support must cradle the fragile form,
Policies to shield against the storm.
Yet still, the deeper questions call,
A murmur in the halls of thought,
Where research treads its patient path.
To understand the silent scream,
The unseen scars that time may glean,
Long must we seek with measured steps,
In studies broad and deep as night,
To grasp the threads, to weave the light,
And from the darkness, bring forth sight.
