He is

May 4, 2009
By Anonymous

He is the picture frame hung without the memory
The color faded and edges frayed
Gray dust settled on the glass and his eyes distorted
He is the winter dead and steely
The powdered ground that makes me numb
He is a hollowed clam
Once with something beautiful inside
With something to give, a treasure now lost in sand
He is the untouched white paper
Now stained with deep ink, crumpled beside my feet
He is a gentle sunset gone
Orange and color waving warmth
Suffocated by darkness that makes pupils dilate
He is a young race car, a blur
To swift and flying to see
Himself demolished in his own smoke and flames
He is the brother I once knew
Now vanished in time to far to look back on
I miss him as the fish misses water
Fighting for the quench of the sea
For the relief of pain so dry and unbearable
Please come back to me


The author's comments:
My brother has been a junkie for the last three years. He is addictid to herion, his drug of choice. He died April 15, 2009 of a herion overdose, he was 18. I wrote this about a year ago when I knew he couldn't stay clean.

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