4 a.m. Cots

Not for the love of whiskey do they drink
but for the hunger of their empty insides
They are the wounded souls, daily doing battle
their own swords turned inward
and, as the pale darkness creeps away from
the spreading redness of the sucking sun
(a sight locked on sore eyes)
they too lift, and once again
become distinguishable from the ground.
No horns destroy the singular rendezvous with God.
No heroes distract from the silent revelry,
which, wave by wave,
washes it all down
washes it all down