The Poison

It wasn’t the quantity,
But the potency
Of the poison
That he found
To be so lethal.

Every night,
That drug
Made its way
Into his body,
And mind,
And spirit.

He could feel
That poison…

And sometimes
Thought that
He could taste it
As well.

The onset
Of symptoms
Was the same…
Every night.

There was a dulling
Of his senses,
As if the world
Before him,
And farther
From his grasp.

His heart began
To falter,
As if robbed
Of its will
To beat.

His spirit began
To sink,
As if the weight
Of his reality
Clutched his legs,
Pulling him under,
Drowning him
In the nether world.

Every night,
These same events
Drew from him
And the will
To move forward.

And try as he may,
To be optimistic…

To struggle
To find happiness…

To fight
To find
The next day…

The poison
Took him…

Drop by drop
To a far away,

He could make it through
Most days,
But the
Poison of his night…

The poison of

Ripped him
From this world,

And celebrated
In his defeat.



© 2018 W. C. Stacia, Jr.


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