Vagabond Overdose

His mother believes he's sleeping,
whilst he's really sneaking out and leaving.
He’s wandering the streets,
always borrowing for keeps,
grifting and often stealing.
Every intention of his is deceiving;
his little book of tricks is heaving.
He's a coward, he’s greedy;
he’s backstreet, he’s seedy,
with addictions that always need feeding.

This time it’s some pills he’s gone seeking;
he’s determined for a session of tweaking.
He’s off on a mission, but inside he keeps wishing,
he’d have grabbed his mum’s ones she was keeping.
He scores a ten bag and starts eating.
All inhibition of his starts depleting.
His heartbeat’s increasing, his adrenaline is speeding
and his trip, thus, appears to be peaking.

Each pill in turn starts releasing,
its power, in tandem, increasing.
His vision gets blurry, his speech becomes slurry,
he’s shivering yet not feeling freezing.
His come-down begins slowly creeping.
A nice spliff to mellow him’s appealing;
feeling lousy and defeated, yet proud and conceited,
he’s sinking with no one to retrieve him.
Now his legs refuse to support him
and his jaw won’t cease its contorting.
He requires a smoke, a few drags, just a toke,
to help prevent his mind from distorting.

But the come-down continues without ceasing
'n the edges of his world fold in creasing.
The stagnant reside, of the drugs left inside,
cause his eyes and nose to start bleeding.

He begins to see demons a-creeping,
multiplying with each breath he’s still breathing.
The demons get closer, his panicking moroser,
as he sits silently but internally screaming.

From amidst the demons comes creaking,
along floorboards, telling without speaking.
His scythe by his side, just sockets no eyes,
the reaper’s arrived ready for reaping.
Aghast, he sits drawn and distancing,
as his vision and comprehension keep withering,
Death carries no empathy, not a scrap of sympathy,
for a vagabond, helpless and quivering.
He prays for God to save him,
but his sins have left him forsaken.
Alone near no saviours, not deserving of favours,
his soul's leeched for an eternal beating.

                  Copyright. 2009-2010 James Francis