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 Round’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 old 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.

© Thurman P. Woodfork 4/25/2007

Read the by Faye Sizemore

Background Sequence, 'Killing Me Softly', by Harry Todd