Where goes the pain that flows in rivers full
Of anguish down the mountainside of flesh
Carrying the crushed and broken hulls
Of ships that sailed once between the breasts?
The pain, the blackest soot of washed out fires
Muddies rivers deep, so much flows out.
Is the water black or red? Inquire
If you should dare, if you would bring about
The wrath and tangled torment of the heart
Whence flow the rivers. It knows not indeed
Which color carves the mountainside apart
Nor which is deepest; both course fast and bleed.
Now shall the river flow with blood or tears?
One offers death, the other, anguished years.
postscript
PTSD sucks