The Den

Walking through this hazy motel, I smell the acrid smoke of the opium den hell. Well lit in my own way, I am packing heat for the demons I will slay. Writhing and moaning, the bodies I see; Falling in weakness on the floor before me. Seductive floral scents loom in the air: These beasts are high and they do not care. Should I say low, for in depression they go; Lost in a see of addiction blindly. The Den of the Dragon; The one I did slay. The Den of the Evil One, I suffice to say. Yet in the den they still writhe: Without a leader: I survive. Leave the hook in your lip they might say: You will regret the day you fought the Dragon of eternity.