In a thousand chains
Like an iron net
held firm in restraint
In what came like a bait,
Some say, it is an addiction
That gnaws souls to submission.
Nay, a friend added diction to oratory,
The audience got hooked.
Putting their best to offend history,
With the will as a tool,
Surrendering it entirely
To the illusion of pleasure.
Who could’ve seen it coming?
That a mind drowns in liquor?
That life vanishes with puffs and smokes?
In Ohio, Opioid shuts all doors?
Tramadol , cradle young Nigerians in gurneys,
Wheeling them to the next level?
In a ghost cities of heroin
rules a hellboy, flakka,
Who arrived with zombies
To hype illusions to heights.
Survivals fellowship in Rehabs
Where the missing souls are traced.
It is a will-o-the-wisp Island.
And escape is by force of will.
Many have dared to stand
To rebel, even to kill.
With a thousand oaths to keep
came a million falls to weep.
In these desires, heroes are lost.
The shells slumped in street corners
Yet, craving the hell that cost,
And reveling with faith in chimera,
On the quest for happiness
And away from the world and pains.
It is a population on their knees,
With lewd image shoppers high.
They toil in thoughts with glee
As threads of doom, gather in piles.
It is dark and gloom for the hooked
But freedom is still a drama of the will.