This is a poem I never hoped or wanted to write.
But I was compelled to do so, in order to cast a net of healing for myself
as I watched a dear,
brilliant and cherished friend refuse support,
suffer and fall into the abyss of a mental disability.

From the Army of the Walking Wounded

She was the color of slip--
A general in the army of the walking wounded
Wearing the shroud of a demented spirit
Devoid of her once vibrant soul
Tongue-tied
Mimicking her own madness
Mind twisted beyond its formidable intellectual recognition
Tortured by an imbalanced gift
Never breathing,
Refueling,
Or renewing along the way,
To restore the brilliant light she lit in so many others
And extinguished in herself.

-- by Daphne Muse