7/25/02

I race to beat back the images, the fanciful possibilities
To even beat back the pain
But the pain, the pain isn’t as hot, as scorching, as demeaning

Dreams of the future, though, burn
They scream like boiling tar on sunburned skin
They taunt like the glistening eyes of a goddess just out of reach
And they crush – but just enough to snap a few ribs

Running, sprinting, I cross into a different life
An anesthetic life
And I score my fix, my anesthesia

But all good is destined to wither away,
For one can only stay high so long –
I come down, away from my lofty outpost

Clouds like gray sludge loom above –
Quickly tearing apart, they empty onto the land
Raindrops tiny diamonds bouncing about in the grass
Yet I can only see the bruised sky,
The world sucker-punched into submission

I push on through the squall
Only dreaming of one thing
Dreaming of the next morning’s fix
All the while, sky turning black