My friend sits on a couch at home
Shivering, Quivering, hallucinating in fear.
Pills, Pain and Beer.
When I sit down and begin to speak
He rolls his eyes, shifts slightly
Are you real…
Are you here?
His feet rustle loosely
Through the forgotten 12 pack of crushed cans
His platoon’s ghosts point…
Staring at him.
Hatchet twirled between his fingers
While watching movement in his mind
Seeing bloody valleys…
Mountains far away
My friend does not see the beauty in his mother’s love
Or ebony braids swinging through his door
To walk his dog…
And ease his soul.
My friend sits on his couch alone with his dead
Calling his name in the dark
Counting his sins…
Tasting the lead.
This article first appeared in The Havok Journal on 17 April 2015.