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Heroin
The harbinger, the disease, the victim.
The holy trinity of self-tyranny.
All born from the source of creation.
Partners in these dark acts,
Authors of broken stories.
THE SOURCE:
Like some things it began in the soil.
Nursed to life by nutrients.
The sun; its mother of light.
All born with the same features,
Grown from the same seeds.
Such trivialities as individuality
Hold no sway amongst its brethren.
Some argue it was the work of a creator
Or mere chance of inevitability.
But to ask them
Is to hear the tendrils of time
Churning beneath our feet.
Their purpose is a quiet one.
Offenders to none.
Yet dark hands with clouded minds
Turn all gentle beginnings
Into certain sad endings.
Mechanisms for the hierarchy of evolution.
Corrupted hearts further the machine
As nature becomes dollars
For the powerful, vices for the weak.
Ignorant of their makers
They continue their cycle of ritual
Amongst the endless ocean of dirt.
Their existence gradually drowning
In the whirlpool of choice and chance.
Picked and processed by the poor.
Simple farmers in turbulent lands.
Most none the wiser
To the evil thoughts and cruel deeds
Of the fat man and the beast unleashed
By his decrepit hands.
Hidden within the devices of nature
This creature will sleep.
Whether it be the touch of a god
Or the result of interstellar stardust.
We will all feel the wounds
And pay for the desires.
But whatever conclusion comes of this
They will continue to grow day by day.
THE HARBINGER:
The source is nothing without the harbinger.
And this is the sad tale of this age.
They come in many forms.
Minions of the great disease.
They are sly and unruly.
Pushers of the pestilence
That devours its victims slowly.
Some are but peasants of society
Forced to let their doppelganger
Reveal itself and take control.
Others are born from within the higher echelon.
These are the most dangerous.
For their proper hands touch nothing.
But through power and words
They plague our cities
And wreak havoc among the serfs of the land.
But none see them
For they are the ghosts of the world.
The phantoms of democracy.
Capitalism at its most tragic.
They touch no one and everyone.
They hide behind out lethargic law
And attend secret counsels
As we pay dearly.
They call their crusade a war
And yet it is never-ending.
And the collateral damage continues
As they blame it on the streets.
The inner city dwellings are
This generations patsies of decline.
Though there are some truths to such claims,
The source of those truths
Is the puppet master of us all.
Bit by bit the soldiers on both sides
Lay waste to what’s left.
All rocks overturned all insects destroyed.
No solutions will be made,
No compromises discussed.
The battle lines are forever drawn,
Pockets fatten and death devours
As the pigs feed from troughs of blood.
THE DISEASE:
This creature of infection
Bares no name nor is it
Caged within a simple frame.
It roams freely wherever it may.
No city or town
Can hide from its grip.
Once its claws dig in, it’s for life.
To ignore it is to let it become you.
Its symptoms are but vague whispers,
Mere beads of water performing
A balancing act on Mother Nature’s leaves.
Yet there is seduction between its gasps
And the more one lets the devil in
The louder the voice grows
Until the body is nothing
Without those treacherous screams.
The soul becomes but a vessel;
The brain is nothing but a vat
For a poisoned well.
An organism of rot will spread
And all reality becomes a fog.
Mist hovering over a trench of bodies.
Visions appear and wisp away.
The body sweats the evil out
Only to replace it with emptiness,
Only to have the hunger grow even stronger.
Life becomes a cycle of routines
As all cares and bonds of friendship
Fade and disappear amongst the ruins of self-decay.
It’s an addiction like no other.
To be within its grasp
Is to know the depths of hell.
It is to look into the the devils eyes
And embrace its corroded abode.
It is to dwell in a lifetime of self-pity
And yet only a single day has passed.
We diseased few sleep by the edge
While the ground beneath us
Gives way inch by inch
Until we are forced in the void;
The absolute bottom of everything.
Such an experience we wish to no one.
But no words can help
For the infected don't yet realize
They are on a journey into depravity
Until that ghoul looks you in the eyes
And the only thing you see is yourself
THE VICTIM:
I am the victim, the victim is I.
Most will see a man of weakness.
Not a slave to the disease.
A mere mistake of maturity.
But these are the views of the unknown
For they have never touched desire:
Never grasped the sin to its fullest.
It is the choice that made me weak
But it was the infection that crippled me.
Handicapped by the genes given;
By the addiction of being addicted.
I have seen the demon and been its slave.
Chained by the proper paraphernalia
That conducts my daily rituals.
It was my naiveté that gave way
To the pretty poison and its seduction.
The snake that fooled Eve
And eventually tricked us all.
To understand my journey
Is to become one of the rotten.
I've sniffed and snorted, picked and prodded;
I've spilled blood and drained a life
All for a purpose still invisible.
She was my lover and I the devotee.
When I first touched her scales
My heart needed no other.
My mind became the marauder of mischief.
But with every touch the soul sheds,
Until my insides became bare;
Dead weight breathing toxins.
The inner urges became decadent;
Joints became broken hinges,
Rusted and decayed to the root.
The feral cravings become all consuming.
My future became day to day.
Hours were years of need and want,
Friendships are broken, loves lost
Until she was the only one.
Her love was born from deceit
But I cherished the scraps given.
I became mans best friend
To the mother of Hades
As I sailed her river Styx
Willing to give anyone my two pence
For a bundle of brimstone.
