Armistice

It's never the hard won battle, Or the glorious victory But the slender slim fingered hand That holds the pen that signs the paper. The Golden Eagle, those talons, That dug into the flesh of the enemy Was only momentary, a distant nightmare Of sleepless nights, sweating, muttering. Of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Twitching jerky movements that haunts Every moment awake with sweaty dread. The anti-depressants rattling inside. Now only the slim fingers that signed the paper That stopped the fighting, that ends the war. Those fingers never twitched in anger Never touched other human flesh or a gun. Fingers now holding the pen resting on the paper. Flowing ink, not rifles firing bullets, That stopped the fight. Those fingers From small weak sloping shoulders That fails to find any tears to shed.