Comforted; left to his own devises,
He snuggles up with a wet blanket.
Warm; cozy; soothing; woozy.
The floor is his walls; disoriented.
Enjoying the show of flashing lights.
All fears medicated from recognition.
One more day; he is distracted from a painful conscience,
Unable to work, to pay bills; spiritually comatose.
"I don't need it", he says...until he does.
Elixir, burning a hole through his belly;
Depressed, but never knows it;
Lost, but never shows it.
His destiny submerged; only floating to the top,
When he's dead!
Go on to next poem by Mark Edgemon: Theme From Monogamy: Do You Know Where You're Going To?
Return to: The Works of Mark Edgemon