PTSD

Hate is the terror that follows me

Vituperative words the clothing of that

Second shadow that all the meds or therapy cannot sever

It crouches ever on my heels, small in the noon day sun of reality.

A shade more deadly but less sympathetic than my fleshy cancer,

Waiting for the evening creep of media reports,

Well-intentioned Awareness campaigns,

Inadvertent closure of an exit with any other in the room,

The uncontrolled and frequent contact in a crowd;

The memories’ setting sun swell it’s size and power

Till panic swallows my hard won peace of mind.