filthy. living in refuse. abandoned
dilapidated shack in nowhere’s backyard,
roaches and lice feasting my flesh, ants, mice
gnaw my skin, leave their bloody signatures . . .
recovery dreams can be worse than fugue
visions. and then comes the usage dreams filled
with unwanted drink and intoxication,
all good intentions consumed along with
perdition’s road itself. come morning light
and stark awakening, these dreams like mists
part beneath the sun’s glaring truth—some words
said in prayer, thanks for another day,
chases the dreams back to their dark repose;
one day won’t do to rebuildrome, I suppose.
David M Pitchford
25 Oct 2011