The Witness

Come in and witness the routine of a drug fiend.

It is a horrible exercise but don’t tell him that

For he knows nothing of what your eyes see.

His mind is tied only to the sad and certain devices

To which get him through the treacherous days.

Every prick, every puncture are the wounds

That have cultivated all over his brittle body.

The mirror that shows his skin is a lie.

The only truth is in what he cannot see.

What lies between is a distance too far to trek.

What would he do without his daily exercises?

His rehearsed rituals so perfectly imperfect.

The devil’s aid keeps the junkies jittering.

And the angels keep crying for some kind

Of beautiful forced rapture never to come.

All the fixes in the world are too broken to repair

These tracks that checker this undevine body.

The shards of memories that bleed out

Have no leeches to drown in dirty blood.

No friendly neighbors to share tragedies with.

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