Cravings subside as you inhale the complex mixture with your medicated limbs,
overburdened, my fragile state is discreetly tucked away.
I watch as the coward, weathered now but surviving, changes focus seeking its next victim.
A prison sentence for whoever succumbs to the “kick.”

 

The hungry devil lingers deliciously alive, staining the walls in
brown and yellow.

I’ll take the tray from your lap, one more time
daydreaming about sailing with you in Little Pleasant Bay.

 

It could be days, maybe hours waiting for the next volley. 
I’ll continue to feed you, dress you, wake you gently.  

“Tomorrow,” you always said with conviction.
An easy word as it rolls off the tongue.  
                                      I always envisioned sandcastles, sea glass and holding hands. 
Truth is, we simply underestimated the damage already done.
 

Too late in the game now, to throw away the ultra-light carton of clever advertising 
in this ringside seat with its pains and fortunes. 
                                       Tomorrow...... re-written, re-sanded,
with its nervous edge of nicotine, we yield to what cannot last. 

 
 
 © Joy Marsh