The Junky
The Junkie
How skillful yet your monstrous face,
that hides your love and gayer part
from all who dares to try embrace
with tender care and open heart.
In solitude you live this life,
this burden self-denial’s hate;
that chose you as companion’s strife
remembrance of a happier state
you laugh inside yet snide and bark
to every soul that cross your way
your voice an echo and a lark
when did you choose to go astray?
For was there once a happy child that roamed;
these bare and lifeless bones,
you now call home and not so wild
A scarecrow with the sorrow moans?
will there ever be a substitute
to guide you home to fires warm
when (all you seek will constitute
to a drop of death and a needle in your arm
is ever there a moments truth
that seeks your conscience and your mind
to not forget and play aloof
when parent grief and tries to find
you who were their baby once
the joyous bundle, gift of love
now dependent on an ounce
of powdered sin on wings of dove.
or will you grant them just one day
recollection of your childlike grace
when they mourn and bow their heads to pray
for mercy on your covered face
when they stand alone at gravesite new
trying to recall your joyous smile
for long has gone the child they knew
as soil covers your last and endless mile.
Copyright © Cat Lamondt | Year Posted 2024
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