Those were the lost years
when my days were bathed in
the hazy, soft glow of fentanyl
and tomorrow never came.
Those were the stacked hours
of feeling nothing
and floating lazily
down the opium river.
I neither belonged there,
for more than one lucid moment
between applied patches –
On with the new and hungrily
chewing the old.
I was then a woken mummy,
wrapped in dirty layers of
stepping haltingly from
light into shadow.
In those years,
my world spun on a shaky spindle,
my North, my South, my East
and West tossed into a
dark, bottomless hole.
Saturdays were spent in
sweat stained sheets,
clothed in smoke and asphalt
as the withdrawals descended;
counting the seconds and praying
Death would gather me in its
Every four weeks, the pharmacist
would call my name and I would
lather, rinse, repeat.
Half smoked cigarettes fill the vapid air,
the poet hunches over in total disrepair.
His dalliance with the muse is such a sad affair,
When words won’t come, he slouches in despair.
The night mist lingers though he doesn’t’ really care,
Surrounded by empty bottles, his vision is impaired.
The empty page taunts him, “Fill me if you dare!”
He reaches even deeper, but there’s really nothing there.
Another evening of this is more than he can bear
In absolute surrender, his pen flies through the air.