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The Chair...
He sits there in his chair awaiting his fix...
waiting for life to be replenish...again!
He's not the only one, many are the victims
with their own chair, similar to the clients in
a methadone clinic, a quick fix every other
day.
His life evolves around 'the chair' now with
hope lingering and faith wondering,
"How long until the end?"
Every addict has a friend who is an addict,
he's found one to share his pain and sorrow
with, yet embrace with words of
encouragement.
Two needles, one vein...one needle siphon's
the impurity, the other delivers the pure.
In three hours he'll be back to life...again!
While he awaits, his memory ooze's from his
arm. Each blood drop that hits the floor is a
past memory slowly deteriorating in his mind,
staining the floor...
After each resurrection the body is weary, so
he must rest. 'The chair' may have his life,
but not his spirit...may weaken the will, but
never take his soul-- 'The Chair' is his friend
now...an undesired haven.
His blood-shot eyes show the discomfort of
'the chair'.
On a recent trip to his homeland, he asked his
wife, "who she was and where were they going"
...she wept!! 'The chair' was ready when the
flight landed. I remember when the shit hit the
fan, it began with a stroke while he was in the
shower, I told him,
"Father breathe through your nose!"
The paramedics came but the day was already
saved-- the pharmaceutical crap given to take
killed his kidneys, now my father is a dialysis
patient, my mother weeps and I cry alone to be
strong, blaming God, condemning 'the chair'...
