PTSD

Sally knew,

when she heard the roux

of words, once said, which led me to

 memories of Mogadishu.

I reached the place and traveled through,

producing dreams, which on review

sent me screaming all anew,

coughing up those faces who

wanted to bid me harsh adieu,

rife with pain and blood, my limbs askew,

with background music on kazoo.

Bullets flew, and I could not construe    

the locus of the battle, nor who,

might fire the bullet, from the blue

to catch me, standing in the queue

for hell, or an equivalent to,

to answer for things I did, or didn't, do

for any, or for all, of you.