Sunday, 19 March 2017


He shouts through the letter-box and knocks on the door -
Sweating and shaking hurriedly wanting to score.
The sun is shining, but not in his face;
No radiance there - only disgrace;
A patient he is, calling to the criminal surgery,
Seeking medication from doctor-dealer me.
You're at the finishing line of your race,
Come on through, just on more pace.

Now you're through i'll take your hand
And lead you to your promised land
Come on forward and don't look back,
Now you're here you're back on track.
 I'll open up my stash of crack -
And your promised land - grains like sand.

Copyright Andrew Stevenson 19/03/2017

A sonnet.

Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.

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