Heroin Dream

© 2003 David M. Taylor
All rights reserved.

he sits, silent, on cold, wet concrete
in a deep alley behind blank buildings,
raises his vein arm at the darkened sky
in order to wrap the belt around his pain.

he taps his arm to lure out the life
so he can inject the painkiller,
strangle memories
of a father, husband, friend,
which linger like fragrances
of cheap perfume vials
that shattered in a bathroom sink.

his gaze radiates--
a never-healing wound soaked in salt.
as the barrel is pushed, the load deposited,
the vein floods with numbness.
his life has meaning again.

darkness permeates his pupils;
in less than a minute, it is done.
his bones gleam,
wanting to burst through his paper skin.

needle removed, belt loosened,
a drop of red blooms
onto his scarred, unforgetting forearm.

hands wilt to the side
as his mind swivels,
stirs like milk into a cup of coffee.

his Adam's apple bounces
as he swallows his soul.

his skeleton rises, lowers;
respiration slows, melts away;
breath weakens.

he looks down at a frozen puddle,
stares at the once-known stranger,
wonders if there's a way to kill the pain
which will linger after morning's light--
without killing the man.

rain drips on his naked head
from the fire-escape above.

eyes close, accompanied by mind;
a smile fills his gray face
as reality spirals to a never-ending dream.

he gasps the last breath
in the chilled, solid air;
states: that‚s better.

pulse silences, misery fades.

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