Lately all my friends are
ghosts,
wrapped in black,
painted pale.
They are chopping
at their powders,
speaking into cigarettes,
breathing gasses,  
ingesting
acids.

They are laying
on the lawn under the
damp clouds.

I watch them watch the skyline,
their eyes
fixed
on the horizon,
caught in that
crooked
glance that ends in both eyes
twisting inward.
Both eyes closing.
They are looking for God in everything.
They are praying for a
sign. That special
high, that painful
peace and the semblance of
proof. Seeking every ephemeral
comfort.  

A car drives by.
A mother is taking her kids to soccer practice.
A man quietly
shuffles along the road, attached to his dog by a leash.
I'm sitting on the front porch under the
damp clouds
waiting for anything.
The poison is kicking
in.