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Poem

A needle: a small, thin object
with a sharp point that mends
our open wounds. 

Sewing needles are polished
and used by seamstresses
to keep our clothes 
stitched and tailored.
Acupuncture needles,
a traditional remedy believed
to heal the body and mind.

Fresh scented pine trees
bow through summer and winter,
fall and spring. 
These needles are survivors,
they never sleep.

But, the needle you preferred
produces only 
unanswered questions, 
tears and disarray.

When the needle
punctured your skin,
its venom sprinted
through your bloodstream,
freeing your endorphins
in a dance inside your brain. 
Your body rattled, eyes twisted,
you descended into
a self-constructed euphoria. 

You settled in dwellings
the needle provided, 
dishonest, dead and rheumy eyed
as you chased your magical dragon
to ease that unfathomable pain,
time slipped by you
and like a crook in black, 
life faded away. 

A boy of six or seven, 
asleep on a ruined mattress, 
in a home abandoned. 

A son; your blood and kin.
His eyes flutter open, 
to see you at rest on a chair
beside the window frame, 
No clouds or shine,
no moon nor stars;
no emotion, no hesitation; 
Only you, his protector, 
thrusting 
that needle into your
vein.

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