Lost in a world of nothing,
Refugees from time and space,
Abandoned by and abandoning
The rest of the human race,
Drifters and vagrants devoid of pride,
Devoid of dreams, devoid of hope,
Their future the next ten minutes,
Their next fix of metho or dope,
They stare with vacant eyes,
Afire only at the sight
Of a bong or a syringe,
A bottle, or powder white.
Then, greedy for the charge,
Trembling with anticipation,
They devour the devil’s elixir,
The food of disintegration.
Like wraiths hiding in doss-houses, Or pale specters haunting the dark, One finds them in squats or in shelters, In storm drains, or in the park.
Alcoholics and junkies
Who’ve finally reached road’s end Must turn one way or the other –
Death, or starting to mend.
Once bedrock is reached there’s a glimmer Of hope that they’ll turn around,