• Distant

    How far away the world must seem
    when we dream of distant times.
    The power-hungry, the wealthy and those starving
    for more will always be lurking
    within the media's doors.
    The corrupted, the callous, the cruel-hearted and captive
    All fall behind when the pretty white pills
    Take effect
    And drift us into a distant sleep.

    The world leaves us behind
    when we dream of distant dreams,
    of desires, high wires, falling and screaming
    as the darkness seeps in,
    soothing, seething, searing,
    different from the bliss that the pretty white pills
    brought us only
    minutes
    before, a long long distance between us and our minds.

    The harshness of the black is startling,
    especially after the soothing grey
    of shifting somewhats and silent soliloquies
    difting through the summer nights.
    It is only now that the spiking pain does its best
    to slash and tear and rip through the remaining pieces
    that linger in the frozen air
    of a distant time,
    where peace was prosperous and plentiful.
    Where did it all cease to be?

    It's getting worse,
    for the war drums are pounding,
    an omionous mantra through the timeless space.
    The army is marching,
    coming to get me,
    or rather, the frozen remains. I cannot move,
    but do I want to?, I ask myself,
    as the weapons fire,
    a blaze of glorious death in the darkness.

    The fire passes through me,
    the bullets do the same.
    The bombs, the grenades, the platoons and brigades
    cannot seem to touch a hair on my head.
    The music is pulsating, rocking and rolling,
    a wave of pleasure in this untouchable pain.

    I see another standing by,
    the face turned away, money clenched in one fist,
    a knife in the other.
    They turn and walk away, but then
    they turn around again.
    The figure walks behind me,
    draws the knife from in my back.
    Crimson spots my vision,
    and so I fall upon the ugly little pills.

    White stabs into my sight when I crack open my eyes,
    Neon grey illuminates what little there is to see.
    A hospital room, with more drab then doctors,
    one of which hovers above my form.
    An IV drips, both red and white,
    a familiar pulsing beat beginning anew.
    Several surround my metal cot,
    asking me something I can't understand,
    as the darkness starts to close in again.

    The dreams are becoming so real, so tangible
    I can reach out and touch the bloody knife
    that sits
    by my bedside, in a puddle of crimson blue,
    noting, as the prettiest pills take my mind,
    how distant the world seems to me
    now.