Torched Lance …
I stagger by your habits and addictions in disgust
Those mini monuments that hold you hostage though deceased
You treat them like the filthy things they are, and you lust,—
as though you’re an addict with aspirations for release
Ultimatums are made and threats to livelihoods are crossed
one alveolus at a time, the grave cost to pay,
One little fire burning the village, ‘til everything is lost,
And breath becomes a ravaging feat for taxing each day.
Twenty times each day this copious feat is taxed,
Convincing yourself that you felt better, more relaxed,
You wake up on the slaver’s block preparing for the axe,
And like a robot your steps were measured by syntax
The morning smoke, the breakfast puff, the way you’d plan your steps
The winter frost on your hoary tips, the smoke rings dance with ice
The warnings stirred were not enough, the mind accepts
The inhales before your coffee sips, delusional but nice.
The brain enwrapped by ties of smoke, at least the poison,
to dance with inhibition, taunted like a frantic fiend,
attacking defenses, laughing, promoting itself as enjoyment,
in the background it chokes you, no matter how hard you wean.
It tempts you like some evil cult facilitator,
And you reflect its tale, like some debilitated disciple
Each weaning process, followed with mercurial misbehavior,
The steps in your feet to fail, like God was cruel and spiteful
How long, in the microcosm of Chronos’s thought?
Stifled in the backdrop, in simple smiles to trial,
The drive, the willpower, each day, with doggedness, fought,
I know the pain you speak, the want, the desire growing viral.
Every smoker is one with the idol Prometheus
At one point or another we all believed we could harness fire
Feed the desire of unity, spark the urge of obedience,
Placate hells from the auburn ribbon at the end of the lighter
The more you stare the more and more you lose who you are
Mesmerized by that flicker, that welcoming to a new ego
With that James Dean-like ruggedness in your repertoire
You feel like a superstar, no equal, but that too is deceitful
You suck in this poison, this invisible venom
Thinking still that your social status will somehow climb
That the next expiry note will not see your name on the vellum
maybe you are above it, immune to the stock paradigm.
The steps are not failures, but insufferable to take,
Breathing with immense stridor, like an avalanche atop you
Like God has his hands girded around your trachea
Or the devil has your airways pinned beneath his shoes
Feeble excuses, always the ruse, torched lance and the noose
Analogous companions, equipment for use, the ransom
against you at your own will, if the shoe fits, use it
No truce with the dragon, your life in hellacious abandon.
One last hit, fingertips scorched, blisters emerge, singed skin splits,
The urge for more, committed to yearn, while burning another,
There’s always a burning, on the edge we live, through all the fits,
We’ve done this before, this hurting, same old way we suffer.
Addicted to this shit, media scorns, gas station posters taunt,
Like a crack fiend dreams; withdrawal sucks and ire apexes
In money schemes they sell us toys, like “Juuls” they flaunt
We feel redeemed, though now we’re stuck in a new objective—
Aggressive methods they propagate, promoting new waves,
Though at the end of the day all they sate is addiction
Conviction to another drug, another way to be a slave
Another way the mind has learned to deal with affliction
© 2019 Paul Neglia
For more works about addiction, love, life struggles, Shakesperian style, and other great topics by this author see Paul Neglia Author Page.