One

Addiction --

weeping wound

at the juncture of time and space

where "never"

collides with

"now." 

The angels

rush to gather 'round,

heads bowed,

bathing the wound

in their tears,

drenching the soul

with their prayers. 

And the world hurts

in unknowing sympathy,

because this

one

suffers so.

Jealous Captor

On his knees within,

the addict stumbles through the day,

substance crooning, "I'm your friend,"

while holding friends at bay.

Mere mortals can't compete

with the peaks of ecstasy

that wax and wane alluringly

in twisted reverie.

Cruel Dominion

There is a tyrant,

hidden, stealthy,

who whimsically

foments crises

in the blink of an eye --

between evening and dawn,

between morning and afternoon,

between one hour and another --

catapulting its subject

in a seismic jolt

to the four winds.

If it had a face,
this tyrant,

it would be the face of a monster,

a madman.

If this tyrant had a body,

it would be that of a
vicious, clinging

monkey.

If this tyrant had hands,

they would be giant

claws.

If this tyrant had eyes,

they would be obsessed,

deranged.

If this tyrant had a mind,

it would be twisted,

reeking with the stench of lies,

lies promising Heaven
to the body, to the mind . . .

but, instead,

delivering Hell.