I lie in waste again.

I pace the carpeted floors,
with the padded feet of a big cat
so hurriedly cautious to mute
my steps.

The high is dull and repeated,
repeated.
Every day spun out on these
wine stained bedsheets.
My mind

is emptied
like a small town orchestral hall,
dusted and stale.

The lights on the screen
bend and converge into spirals of colour,
and the sounds from the speakers
coo subtly through the air,
soft, soft.

And the moon,
the moon hangs fat in the sky.
A hollowed spectre gleaming
Pearl-like
in the cushioned blue shadow of the night.

My lids fall heavy and dry;,
each blink an effort to keep consciousness
but the resin lines my blood
and holds true
in my bronchioles for just a little
longer.
Please,
a little longer.

A light fix of no consequence
and the return of an appetite long
lost
in the hermitage of depression.

The high is dull and repeated,
repeated
to still the pacing of my mind.

To capture the world within a frame,
and to quieten the thud of my heart.