Toxic sweat crawls up the back of that neck,
Spreading profusely contaminating that scalp,
Salty skin sizzles with freezing hot shivers,
Thin dead despair plights the lobes of those lungs,
Muscles roll and quiver in panicked spasms,
They plead for the potion, the antidote of peace.
And this is but a half a grinding day since that last healing fix.
The fully satisfying hit intended to be the swan's song,
Is now forgotten, lost deep beneath a dying crow's wail,
Blackened morosity envelopes the searing hot coal,
Growing, seething behind those hot bloated eyes,
Dripping, freezing, burning dry, easily convinced to die,
And this is but a half a grinding day since that last healing fix.
Broken, body stifled with anguish too sick to move,
Courting the droning emptyness of the sinful non-living,
Sun, too painful to see, air too pure to stand,
Earth, too hard feel, love, too distant to want.
And this is but a half a grinding day since that last healing fix.
by BSW 1997
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