A voice, a whisper; echoing endless
Petrification: caught again-guilty.
To trial, before jurors, spent breathless,
a judge of biased anonymity.
A gavel smashed, shattered into splinters
a gasp, an outcast, rendered a phantom.
And innocent of crime, cold and bitter,
I brood; I falter, I feel the symptoms.
There you are again, my addictive strain.
Haunting my move with watchful, wary eyes.
A course of healing poison through my veins,
Inject into me until I will die.
Remain, running through me, please be my high.
upon clouds, so numb, just let me fly.
No, I am not on drugs. I thought I should make that very clear. I don’t find any joy in drugs outside the ones that keep me alive, and even those bother me horribly. This is only a metaphor for the dangerous addiction of love. However, though compared to a drug (and I do believe it is one) it is the purest and most satisfactory of all narcotics. It can make all the problems in the world go away. It can put you on a high that, with a little luck, you may never come down from.