Every time I close my eyes
Old demons touch what needs left be.
All the wars I've made it through-
The afterthoughts are what kills me.

I'm embarrassed and unfulfilled,
It's over but it seems undone.
I wish to go back to break those things
From which my satisfaction runs.

My right hand is throbs in anger.
My left, in sympathy pains.
My mind can not be content
Without the cleansing of these stains.

My right hand can't close into a fist.
Not that it doesn't believe in such things,
But because It's been broken by such things.
Options at forks I will always miss.

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