|
That Old Feeling |
 |
|
The years of self-medication
Haven't erased a single
scene;
Rifle fire and exploding mortars
Still echo
through his dreams.
Shadows move in the darkness
Whenever his eyes are closed,
The remembered stench of
Violent death violates his nose.
He still sees Short
Shot's mouth
Stretched in the awful scream
That
penetrated straight to his soul,
And froze his blood, it
seemed.
Once again the slow pulsing
Of suppressed,
smoldering rage
Simmers deep within him,
Coiled and
waiting in its cage.
The years quietly creep on by;
His malaise has steadily grown,
While discontent keeps
building,
Poisoning what peace he's known.
Ghostly
voices, whispering, seem
To plead, calling his name;
He feels the old twinges of guilt
Though he knows he
can't be blamed
For true friends who lie forever
still,
While he sits cradling his drink.
He slowly
lifts it to his lips
In a futile effort not to think.
"Rest in Peace," he almost pleads
In a silent,
heartfelt toast;
The bartender sighs and leaves him be,
To commune alone with his ghosts. |
By
Thurman P. Woodfork
Copyright 2007
Listed
March 4, 2011 |
|
|
