for C.S.R.*

One morning I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead;
  That evening I pace in gullible love;
Night falls, I find wished-on stars have fled.

With intravenous need their hearts drop dead
  (The inward death boyhood knew nothing of).
At daybreak I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead.

The mind, encased in a dark, narrow shed,
  Blindly estranges the sunlight above.
The unlit night resembles my dread.

From the pulse of my trusting veins they’re bled.
  Fitting like a vinegary glove,
The needle transmogrifies their eyes to lead.

Unforeseen fallout from the needle's head—
  Drug-sickness, self-contempt, flesh grown mauve—
Imprisons them. (The stars are dead.)

Maybe if I’d not trailed their pitch-black tread
  My Pyrrhic sobriety would be enough...
One morning I found my f(r)iends' eyes were lead
And all the stars I'd wished on fled.