The wounds of war have never fully healed.
I live with pain,
and I will never, ever get to be
quite whole again.
The battle took its toll. My strength is gone.
I cannot walk too fast or go too far.
Each day I do whatever must be done
and little more.
This truce is tenuous and may yet fail.
My foe is both implacable and sly.
There may be treachery within my blood or bone.
I may yet die.
And though I camouflage my fear with smiles,
I wonder all the while
what sabotage is being wreaked
within me even as I speak.
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