Came back and could not bear the feel of mud
under his feet. Would walk paths in the park
and never cross the grass. Sat in the dark
for random hours. A quickness in the blood
that told him horses, pulled him to the card.
It raced so fierce. Whisky would make him sleep
like the best pillow. Echoed lice would creep
across his skin. He got his life back. It was hard
To live. He stumbled. Bootlace was untied.
The bullet glanced his helmet, and his face
down in the stinking mud. And in his place
his best friend, who was right behind him, died.
He went there to pull teeth. Over the top
they made him go. His scream would never stop.