Cabin Fever

Is is not is

8-26-03

Changes in the enemy
have better ways of dealing with us.
The hiding and seeking childish nightmare
lurks in sleeps of betrothen wise,
kicking the head of the inner adult.
They love the used more than the ready or needy
even if the drug is much more powerful
when clean and untormented.
Blood looks the same when drained from the veins
of popes, martyrs, villains and politicians;
side affects vary by state tax amounts.
Rushing...rushing...
drops and drops by stream to stream
to stain to pain to death.
They make me sick from running.
They make me sick from conforming.
They make me sick from ostracizing.
As all-consuming as they sit and wait,
so is the punk-punch in the hope-starved well
in my abdomen
when they morph into newer, fresher demons
prepared to outsmart us some more.
Sometimes black isn't always black.
On the run from on the run
is not the mend we're not healing from.
A circle without an end.
A lightning strike away from a spark
in a cloudless, peaceful state.