Ghosts, Bullets, And Pills


Ghosts of childhood horrors
whiffs of incense-saturated-screams
a scar on the psyche
long-since-forgotten
until the tip-toe child
peering out the window
waiting for his rescuers
grabs and shakes 
by the shoulders and wakes
that grown, helpless, hope-filled child
The bullet not dodged
held soundly to heart
protecting those who might not have the skill
to avoid such a shot 
whether needed or not
...if only I'd swallowed that pill