Jacked (A Poem)

A door slammed shut, and then shrug off
threads of the cares of day
Sit down before the altar of
The drug, the beckoning Fetish.

A lilting siren song invites
The user to begin his session,
He swears he'll get just this one, quick hit
even as the light begin to number his eyes.

Tap the veins, depress the plunger,
And he is taken out of this world:
Jesters and troubadours, the movements of faraway rebels and kinds.
The chatter of friends, and the lure of effortless
Flesh.

He goes deeper down now, racing as each vision passes
To find the next high.
The world passes by, each sound pressing onward
To the final stroke of night.

************

The junkie slips off the needle, stands up.
His mind befogged,
His eyeballs burning,
His very sinews whining and strung out.
He has overdone it again.

To be free of that Fetish, that Drug,
Would be to free his Mind, his Time, his Life
To an ever-expanding world
Of physical possibilities.

The user asks himself a question:
Does he truly master the Machine?
Or, is he plugged into It?