Down there but for the grace of God go men,
Into a mire as agonized as hell,
Our children, brothers driven there by pain,
Frail hands outstretched beseeching, “make me well!”
This trap, this trick, this torture cruel as death
Starts like a balm, then holds like jaws steel-sprung
In whose unyielding maw ensnares our best
And leaves the native worth of them undone.
Look then not down at them, nor sneer, my friend,
You’re seeing but reflections of your self:
This baited snare, this tainted chalice sends
Our brightest on their downward spin by stealth.
Truth is drugs spread an epidemic ill
And Satan’s proffered hand holds out the pill.
About The Author
For all my poetry, go to http://www.howdohub.com |
