By
Abe Onche
Innocence sits on the threshold
He sits, at home in the vacant vastness
Decadent, twisted into silence
By the ravages of a destitute lifetime
He cannot raise his eyes for fear
Fear of rising to the cold stars of love
Fear of rising to the harsh words of safety
Fear of rising to fall that much lower
Far from the light and the face of God
Angels with tattered wings are his company
It is they that prompt, they that prod
They are the demons in his flesh
Scouring trails across his nerves
He cannot rise to reach the stars,
The lights he once delicately counted
Now replaced by the glint of metal
Littered across the ground around him.
Evidence of heights he tried to soar
On chemical wings
There is an irony to the needles
Desperately threaded with dreams and hallucinations
To sew up a naked existence
Leaving nothing but a score of wounds
To mark their vain efforts
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