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Half past one and you stumble through the door.
Violent and arrogant, confused and angry.
You plop on the couch and slowly withdraw breaths.
You cuss, you mutter intangible words.
You're now sprawled across the floor, shipwrecked.
What once was a clean shirt becomes soiled with vomit.
Hoveled in the corner, hidden in the dark,
sits a small boy vision blurred with tears
scared, frightened, hungry and now alone.
His impressionable innocent face flushed crimson,
his eyes cried red, heart darkened with gloom.
Brutality is the topaz stench on dad's drunken breath.