Psychosomatic Disentanglement

A war-frayed silo    
rented out by flickering muses.    
Trauma-bred neural chamber    
toed through by passing persons.    
   
Codes bleed the papers.    
Amygdala arm casings litter the shed.    
Morse sirens read S.O.S.    
years after gaslight flare bombardment.    
   
Spring to spruce it up,    
more windows to an environment post-conflict.    
The sun pours in    
on a creature of trauma.    
   
The writer puffs exhaust from typing    
indecipherable compulsive script.    
The eyes peeking in mirror the same alien to it.    
   
This is the only silo    
between ears on a wall.    
The ears cave in,    
not to hear the war is stopped.    
   
Rays pour in,    
see only an untidy bed,    
dishes full in a sink.    
"Silo, no way blunted through the soul,    
you are still human to me."