A vivid green,
As a ray pierces,
Gently revealing,
the heady scent of this elegant fruit
explodes into my nostril.
Of all the virtues it bestows,
the one I choose drifts off in smoke,
a selection driven by the illusion of serenity,
my remedy when thinking becomes too much.
One could think I’d turn it into praise,
a draining mistress replacing my dreams,
with, upon waking, a single desire left:
to get wrecked, without the hint of a truce.
And then, when the vessel, however large it was,
equals nothing but the abundance of emptiness,
I’m left facing the dilemma:
restock, at the expense of thoughts returning.
On TV, it’s amusing to watch the clueless float,
wondering if they even know what it is.
Me, my leaning is to deforest,
until my eyes shut down without a blink.
Every time, I tell myself I’ll stop,
then after a week, I feel the itch crawl back.
I resist, then tell myself it’s not that bad,
and so I call my ever-present supplier.
When it’s gone, I think of what it was:
illusory comfort, clashing with harsh truth.
It occupies every moment of my thoughts.
I love it as much as I hate it,
my sweet addiction.
We all have buds