The unmistakable sound of metal carving through ice,
Armored gladiators move swiftly
Wielding wooden weapons with curved blades
As they chase a hard black disc.
Bodies slam into the boards,
The boisterous crowd masks the sounds of cracking bones.
One team scores, then the other.
The crowd cheers, and then they boo.
Two competitors exchange words,
Then fists.

Seconds tick off the clock,
Before they know it the game draws to a close.
Sweat drips from every pore,
Steam rises from the warriors' helmets.
The game has not yet been decided,
So extra time is needed.
The purest form of competition,
The first to score wins.
A skater breaks away from the defense.
He shoots, he scores, he goes home and waits for the chance to play again.

When does a habit stop being a habit?
When does a man turn into an addict?
How far from bottom is his next new low?
How much longer will he let his vice grow?

Is there a point when want turns to need?
He wants to move on, but the beast must feed.
The more he struggles the deeper he sinks,
He's only as strong as his weakest link.

Light fails to penetrate his darkened mind.
He looks for peace, the artificial kind.
He tells himself that tonight this will end,
In the morning his new life will begin.

The sun shines on a new day, but it's too late.
Time carries on without, it does not wait.