He wore his ribbons, bore their praise,
Smiled through the crowd’s empty gaze.
But sand still grinds behind his eyes—
A child’s shoe burning where she lies.

Some nights he leaves his body and soul,
Floats where the dead consume him whole.
Their silent faces never part—
A spectator to his own dark heart.

He came back home to his wife’s stare,
She kissed a stranger standing there.
The kids asked why he screamed at night—
He learned to say he was alright.

One night he made a list of names.
The men in suits who lit the flames.
He traced their addresses in red—
He had new orders in his head.

He found them in their gated homes,
Behind their walls of glass and chrome.
One by one he carved their life—
The wars came home. He was the knife.

But in the silence after death,
He heard a question on his breath:
“Does vengeance cleanse, or sow the seed—
The monster you swore to never feed?”

They found the knife but not the man.
He vanished like the war began—
No grave, no name, no final stand,
Just grains of rumor in the sand.