Click. Boom!
I try to imagine how it must be for you to feel this way,
rising like the undead under deep coffin skies,
when Death warmed over looks healthier by far,
lurching blindly in the dawn with pallid face and bleary eyes.
To be the nouveau riche where addict illness is concerned,
the candle burned both ends with your superficial wealth,
I flinch to think your currency is all but used and spent,
a lifestyle, it would seem, so detrimental to your health.
What if blood might streak ceramic in the toilet bowl,
your tongue a piece of liver on an acrid cocktail stick?
Would you wonder if it's ever been as bad as this before,
do you pray that paracetamol and coffee does the trick?
Is it even less amusing when you start to sweat and shake,
with the sun spraying rays of sawdust in your eyes?
Does the low hum of the 'fridge heard beyond the kitchen door
resonantly escalate into a swarm of buzzing flies?
Does the snap and thud of pumping blood go Click.Boom! in your skull,
a cerebro-vascular accident set loose within your head?
Lord I wish that you would give it up, I'm missing you so much,
see the light that leads you home, and return to me instead...
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