I never met my grandpa,
he fought in Vietnam.
He didn't die in battle.
When he got home,
he attempted to pick up the pieces,
of his shattered mind.

The unimaginable things he must have done
all for the sake of fighting for his country.
The cruelty he must have seen
all for a government squabbling.
To return, with angry faces meeting him,
as if it was his decision to go to resort to arms,
as if PTSD wasn't enough of a punishment.

He returned to his family
struggling to acclimate to the environment.
Tried to shake off
the horrific nightmares of war
that led to bloodcurling screams
keeping the entire block wide awake.

He returned to his job
construction work, paving roads
seeking solitary work,
afraid he would snap.
One day, he crashed.
Pinned into the machine
on a hot June day.

As the sun
baked the blood in his face
this man paid for whatever sins
he committed, and then some.
slowly, he inched his way to Death's doorstep,
with a crooked smile, and a guiltless heart,
finally having peace, in a life of turmoil.