Broken Dreams
I've been dim witted.
I've drank with seasoned veterans of dead-men saloons and bucket-a-blood bars with morbid madmen breathing bourbon sorrows on crazy, cracked tile floors.

I've been pilloried and vilified.
I've followed groaning, grunting sailors into bawdy houses and lain with broken women, their bodies covered in bruises and busted kisses; their perspiring dreams; the burning heat of creaking beds; hearts torn by hands dipped in the devil's bile.

I've been held to account for my twisted sins. Never by those seasoned veterans, by those shore-leave sailors of broken dreams. But by Godly eyes at the cold sorrow of it all.