Children From the Aftermath

I was six When safety died. My father Home from war Would drink whiskey Straight from the bottle. Veins full of firewater, Filled and spilled, Fighting off his pain. My mother locked the door To keep that pain outside. She did not want her children To experience his fears. Our house, a fortress, Bastion of Love against All Nightmares of the world. When the rumble of The Pounding came. My sister Corky, One year older, Was the first to cry. The Pounding loud As any storm Our house Had ever known. The Great Oak Door Began to splinter As we huddled With our Mother, Nearly smothered Against her breast. Three hearts as one In fearful rhythm Matching the Pounding In our ears. Pound for Pound Until the door Gave way to Anger’s Thirst. Split and ruined, As my Father, Running from his War, Crashed into Hope, Pleading with Each Curse For Respite And Relief. The door Between his world And ours Now splintered, Broke, And Gone. Giving up and Giving way As he had done Years before, Losing the battle Between himself And the Horrors Of War. With the death Of that Oak Door Came the death Of our safety And the Destruction Of a Family That was From then, Forever lost.