He wanted.
One more hit and he would
nod off into that euphoric world
of soft cool skin,
lazy limbs,
unconcerned, untouchable,
free of the sin of the world.
An ephemeral release.
Then the roar,
the low tide like the darkest pit of hell – burning and clawing
and depression so intense it sucks the breath straight
from his heaving lungs.
Where are they now while he shakes skinny in the corner;
are they scared to talk about dying?
The streets aren’t;
their asphalt teeth vomit up the junk he needs.
Only the old get older and suffer longer – not him.
He is immediate gratification; a take when you can, while you can.
It is about what they will never understand –
everyone is trying to escape.
just the methods are different.
He wanted more and got it.
He wanted peace and got that too.
We’re still scared to talk about dying. We run and run and run.
(to mike. r.i.p.)
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