Child

A life taken by addiction, judged by society.

Child. 

Oh child! So, that's you? 

You who wrought the villagers a cruel laugh; 

Half pitying, half mocking—pathetic! 

Child! Look at you—dragging in a corpse of cloth, 

Reeking of crusted sweat in a chilly pink twilight, 

Your crown of dreadlocks, a mass rotting on your head. 

As your shadow spilled into their midst, 

Each found a flimsy excuse to flee— 

Even pity cannot anchor to you, 

Outcasted by the pettiest of offerings. 

I hear you’ve found a home by the road, 

A plastic shroud trembling against the sighs of the wind. 

Even the stray dogs think themselves the better beasts. 

Oh Lord! 

It started with a playful smoke, didn’t it? 

A harmless tease, a bid to belong—just once; 

They cheered, they giggled—you were part of the gang, 

“Just this once,” you said. 

But the ache of your throat and head couldn’t quiet. 

“More will soothe it,” they whispered— 

And more did, 

Puffing to sniffing, sniffing to injecting, 

Seeking heights to outpace your plummeting soul. 

Now look! 

An invalid, 

A ghost waiting for the grave’s call. 

Even time, the great healer, finds you too late! 

Child! You could have been— 

A voice, a flame. 

EzroniX Poetry.