damn the torpedoes

I digress with these dreams of home,
instead of marching through the bowels of hell
determined to reach the other side,
conquered and acquired in a satchel of experiences….
were i stronger, able to refuse the dreams –
Oh the drunken tales I could tell.
But I am not and so I only have tales of Morphine haze;
vague and unclear suspicions of grandeur
forever cut like the growing grass
of middle class amerika’s neighborhoods:
privileged in their existence.
I should continue this march through hell.
I should defer the dreams of love too long lost
that I might endure this journey one more battle.
And to that, I will drink!