And in a sense
A kind of visual art
addiction
In still life
The arrangement of flowers -
It is as though I am already mourning
Those who I grieve for
As they continue to use.
It’s like a funeral bouquet
Mourning the dead.
Not already dead,
But on the verge with each
Staggered
Breath.
Each breath impeded
By
Heavy blood
Thick veins
Thick with the stuff
And I am powerless
But to sit and observe.  
Someone once told me:
“The average life-span of a ****** is five years”.
As I walk through Kings Cross
see them nodding off
I wonder -
Are they an anomaly of survival?
And when I see those close to me
They’ll lie just a little
Eyes wide shut
I turn to the paint
The ugly art I make
Try to make some peace within it.