PTSD

Somewhere over the hill
men are blasting rock
the two hundred pound
bomb explodes suddenly
without warning I am
in the streets of Belfast
where shards of glass
miss my face by inches
where blood and limbs
lie twisted in frames
and agony is written
in stone faces of dead
I am here but there
running in the rubble
as sirens roar loud
I gather dead children
sweet faces still now
I wipe the dirt away
mother of God help
the place is no more
the man in the corner
took a direct hit and
shrapnel imbedded
where his eyes were
he is dead for sure
still holding hands
with a his only son
both their legs gone
I am running now
across the field
it is twenty years
since Belfast but
in this loud noise
I am there again
transported by sound
the men blasting
have no idea where
I have been or seen