Friday, 28 January 2011

Femme Fatale

The junkies itch, deep and hot,
And station tracks forgotten and overgrown,
As the thorn's hole begins to rot
And he weeps, on the soiled mattress alone
The blackened wound, stenches, seaps
With the ache of what could have been;
Plaster crumbles inside walls as a rat creeps,
As the whole world folds inwards, and the walls upon him lean
He cooks the supper and into the blackness, the knife; the need
Yellow skin swells and the yellow teeth, grip the hide
The nihilistic strain of selfish greed,
No remorse or atonement; it was never tried,
Magician's smoke rolls past his eyes
And the world, now different from what was known,
Shines it's son through the blissful lies
And the darkness waits for him to be alone.
The wounds can heal and fade
In time, All junkies do know,
But deeper wounds from the blade,
And that dull itch and ache will never go.

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