“What we all want, really, is to be loved. That craving drives our worst behavior.”
― Jodi Picoult, Handle with Care
he stood there
quaffing whisky,
and smoking cigarettes
the disease had taken both him
and those he loved,
right out of consciousness,
and made them relics
from another world,
unsightly abominations
disfigured by their wounds!
the fragments of his life,
once placid,
lay scattered all around
in hopeless shards
and pierced the very essence of those he loved!
feather beds where no more comfort
in the underbelly where
pain was forged,
like screaming steel!
life-long friends
became veiled
and sorrowful,
and out of reach,
in this disease that took his life.
infectious as it was
it drove an unhappy blade into the heart of love
and stripped away the love,
that was once
so nurturing!
morsels of hope
were spoken in garbled tones
of regret
and longing.
unanswered prayer
tormented his waking,
he screamed his supplications,
and begged for redemption!
the prison of his mind
had long ago discarded the need for higher things;
the craving knew no bounds
and ate a large mass
of what his life should be!
on the streets
of his own loathing,
a no man’s land of broken souls,
a chasm grew between him
and those he loved.
he became of not a noble kind,
his life permeated with lies,
the kind he had never known,
or understood,
before
the craving had begun!
each member had become diseased
and had lost the art of truth,
in tightened sphincters
his contrition grew
to fever pitch.
if he could reach this love again,
he knew that hope would belong,
and the light of knowing
would illuminate his mind!
they had each painted glossy pictures
on walls built by suffering,
hiding their pain,
so no one would ever know
the bitter despair
that raged day and night,
and the toxic shame
chiselled into stone
of broken hearts,
that hurt penned in blood
of the many years
that had been swallowed by tears!
though an end should come,
they said,
but what end would it be?
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