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Relapse
November 26, 2015
Again,
I stare at my trembling hands
and will them to stop their cowardly demeanor.
Head low, back slouched on the
human futon, as sweat dripped down
pre-carved ridges and well-worn tracks, landing like
fleeing tears on the dusty coarse ground.
Waiting for the familiar emptiness to arrive,
time passes like a train, without thought
to its passengers and their precious cargo.
At long last,
I set my callused soles on the beaten earth,
and rise to begin anew.
© Jason B., Colorado Springs, CO
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