He Ain't Heavy

He’s my Brother, a Reservist, duty done and back at home.
Old wounds linger, now there’s cancer  - a different foe has come.
“I’m so weary, tired of struggling just to get up every day.
I’d do it all again,”  he shrugs. “It’s still a price to pay”.

He’s my Friend  and kind co-worker, wearing desert pattern still.
A constant guide and resource, disciplined of mind and will.
The scars he bears aren’t mentioned, joked away as “healing well”,
Over wounds that gaped like craters from a foreign combat Hell.

She’s a Neighbor, known but briefly, and her shy smile masks the tears
That still may come, from injuries now past by many years.
Assault is but another form of “friendly fire” that kills
The trust and friendship that she lost is numbed today with pills.

He’s Anonymous, a phone call voice, a cry of loss and pain.
The war he found was different from the tactics he was trained.
A child brought up to aim at Soldiers joined the combat fray,
Now this Soldier’s heart is shadowed by the small soul lost that day.

He’s a Lover or a stranger, new found pal or oldest friend;
come back home  to rest and train until he’s called away again.
The violent tigers of his mem’ries have been trapped and caged,
till time and balm of friendship can dilute their roaring rage.

They are Soldiers, Seaman, Airmen;  citizens from every state.
They sacrifice to build a world of harmony, not hate.
The scars they carry may not be the kind that you can see.
But all of us can share their pain, the price of being free.