I searched his eyes in the briefest of moments,
I looked in places no one did,
And saw the emptiness of his soul.
In that split of second,
I heard his soul cry for help,
Like a man set ablaze in his own abode.
I felt the stench of his breath,
The smell of his rotten soul,
Fouled by the odour of liquor.
I watched as he staggered on,
Barely keeping his feet on the ground,
As he walked away from my sight.
I felt the regret in his mind
the sorrow he singly bore
As he muttered words unheard
I saw children greet him with scorn
And he in vain his hurt repress,
As he gently he muted voice cursed.
I wathed him stagger beyond my sight.
I read from him a history of paid,
one only woeful men said.
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Comments about this poem (The Drunkard by Precious Okidika )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
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