Irony

A man walks home
Head down
Counting his footsteps
Listening to the sound
As they slap the walls

His shoulders are heavy
And his breaths are short
Yet he paces on

The rigid gloves restrict movement
But soothes the pain
Carrying in one hand
The milk
The butter
His wife asked for
And in the other
The doll for his little girl
The toy cars for his little man

He still wears the helmet
For there are too many things at hand
For him to rid his head of the weight

The rifle strapped to his back
The one he shot all day
Hoping to miss
Yet never so sure
Swings front to back

And here we see how man
Works for the better of his family
Of how he sells his soul
For the comfort and longlasting years of theirs

How he is paid to kill
To pay lifes debts...