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Demons
Pale as the clouds in a winter's gloom
His cheeks on pavement floor
He gets up with empty eyes
trembling and murmuring,
with that elastic band around his arm.
A raised projection in the crevass of his arm
A "bruise" is what he calls it
All the symptoms are there
In the dead flesh air
And yet he expects me to walk right past it.
I'm tired of his shit.
Mind my swearing,
but you would feel the same as me.
To once be his addiction
Now an affliction
And he blinds himself not to see.
