Short Life Poem by David Gibbs

The view through the bottom,
Of a bottle of drink,
Is never as clear,
As the drinker might think.

The drinker might swear,
That he has the power,
To drive the road straight,
At thirty miles per hour.

But a child with a ball,
Or a dog off its lead,
Can drift in the road,
Like the wind carries seed.

He'll cross the road,
Without even thinking,
The drunk runs him down,
Without even blinking.

Don't blame the child,
For being so young,
The driver was drunk,
His reactions were numb.

Grey matter oozing,
From a pale, ashen face,
Crimson on tarmac,
A terrible waste.

'You can't blame me'
The drunks eyes are pleading,
The boy in the road,
Is motionless, bleeding.

A scream cries out,
A mother at her gate,
The mother starts running,
The mother's too late.

The drunk tries to speak,
Slowly and slurred,
He's feeling quite sick,
And his vision is blurred.

The ambulance comes,
With a bag for the death,
The policemen arrive,
With a bag to test breath.

The drunk man is sobbing,
At what he has done,
The mother is kneeling,
In grief for her son.

Grandma and grandad,
Have one grandson less,
Mother's still crying,
And dad's in a mess.

After one hundred months,
Life has come to an end,
Teacher, less a pupil,
Classmates, less a friend.