All these lives they walk the line
of crystal rose and china fine
and when the bells begin to ring
they kneel before their 12 ounce king
risen for whatever heist
when the itch has been crushed and sliced
leaving designs upon the passageways
ready and waiting up for days
nothing's important and nothing's a crime
when counting the grams of the sands of time
their bodies are tired and minds are shot
waiting for one of them to get caught
not a one knows what to do
or from right or wrong, false or true
their personalities are becoming cranky
as their fingertips are numb and shaky
their eyes are sinking far back in their head
each one resembling the walking dead
none of them will ever be stopped
until the last rail has been chopped
and there is no more to be bought
or until their brains start to rot
Bridget Bush
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pretty-little-meth-heads-all-in-a-row/
