BOTTLE THE ACID
My sponsor said to bottle the acid and so I did. I sat back in smug reflection until the plumbing backed up. I grabbed the fast solution and poured it down the drain. My sponsor smiled as I learned the baser things will eat my life away, too. I can never just decant power and expect it to sweep clean the clogged pathways in my recovery. Sloshing caustic medicine into open orifices brought me here. I long for the ease of a liquid resolution. In the end, I must clean the pipes myself. The traps are simpler to cleanse the less I’ve lied. Telling myself I don’t have to get my hands or heart dirty is the biggest lie of all.
Eat lunch with relish.
All the water in the well, gone dry, belongs to me.
Such an offer, how could I refuse?
I stand as near the edge as I can get
and try my best to peer, is the goldfish alive?
For you see this is still my best hope,
you, the source are also my wishing well,
more than just survival you are prospect, neigh dream.
You say that what’s left is mine,
but you think of it as incidental, not a need, merely a want.
Someplace deep, beyond where you admit,
you know that life is dependent on desire,
but will play mine off as casual
when it becomes inconvenient to your drives and blindness.
Eunuchs do not immediately perish,
but you must confess they do not live.
I stand here a lock to which there is no longer a key
and whether I am open or closed it doesn’t matter
for the partnership of change is desiccated
and I do not care for a waterless solution.