The Drunkard

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
Week old clothes, the stench
of ethanol floating like an aura.
Home is somewhere, someone does wait
but the alcohol is more important.
It flows through the veins like a river,
to drown out the sounds,
of bullets piercing skin,
of shattered bodies flying.
It drowns the stink of smoke,
in a disgusting combination
with the smell of death.
It drowns the muffled scream,
of someone shot through the neck.
It drowns the memory,
of medals pinned to a heavy heart,
of guilt for being the one who made it back,
of the cross hairs.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.

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