Your body is like a cheap-thrill pagan idol
demanding of sacrifices to a God
who is not appeased by the heart, or the pencil,
instead, he craves a much more secular blood.
Inside your kind voice there is an acute oddness
that gnaws on my patience like a broken promise.
Salvation, I understand, just won’t suffice.
You’re perfecting the art of the destructive life.
From nothing you came to this Earth from your mother
and father, who left you for cocaine, then jail.
Encasing yourself in your own kind of cell
now you guzzle down whiskey shots, one then another.
Like a powerful wave that will crash to the shore
you will someday recede and be nothing once more.
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