The Wound is the Disease

Never shot,
never wounded, they say 
but I brought something home
another way.

They called it healed,
rated at zero,
not worth a cent
for the time spent.

But something kept bleeding
through the age,
something inside me
raged.

With no wound seen,
there’s “nothing wrong”…
yet truth lay waiting
in altered Dee In Aye.

The wound is a disease,
ready to come out any day.

The wound unseen 
so there’s nothing wrong with me.

What came without a blow
is what my service sewed —
a strand of translocated
Dee In Aye.

Hidden sick
beneath the skin,
a slow burn,
a wick within.

Time divine,
but endings defined.
Nothing ever came
in a straight line.

The wound unseen,
so there’s nothing wrong with me
in any way…
but truth lay waiting
in altered Dee In Aye.


The wound is a disease,
it never really leaves.
What came without a blow
is what my service sewed.

Country, Rock, Metal