She
gave me life—and ever for troubled, tunneling through life. I never found her, spinning through
nightmares, afraid of sobriety. We
hurt to see it, the heart we love, running through minefields: the near
explosions, the bruised ego, and the caves that collapsed. I lost ground, to watch addiction, to
become secluded; and trekking nightmares, where ghosts speak, in wine and
liquor. It was us, as close as
distance, inclined to silence; for love was pressure, and multiple persons, peaking
for attention. How for love—some
version of such, sorting through dysfunction; but how to tell, according to
standards, to reach the harmless? It
was midnight, where memories come forth, to seek a false escape; and to whom is
watching—forever this grayness, and plus, the reprobate; oh for purgatory, or
even limbo, and near the same: the burning ice, the fiery splinters, where the
two alternate. Its constant torture,
to purge a soul, to ask for why? She gave me life—and ever for
troubled, tunneling through strife; where hell was smoke, a repeated cycle, to
chase for yesteryears—and watch they pass, traipsing through decades, alone in
the community. To war for souls, as
vacant as not here, fevered for
Father; to hear the language, the mind of church, headed to rehab! The days knew pain, plus a nervous
laughter, to grieve for solace; and ever for conscious, to center in feelings,
and fraught with emotions. She gave
me life, to lose for life, to die for life.
I watched the dying, disguised as living, to feel the pregnant madness;
to flit in moments, as so much more, than mere addiction; to have a soul, to
know for right, pulled by this force; where hell felt triggers, to usher
actions, to archer destruction. She
lost her core; but what for this core—but an inner design? It begs the statement: If it hurts—it’s wrong; so we float
towards freedom, ostracizing addiction.
