Overdosed

Who’ll mourn if the come down doesn’t wake him,

Not most of his victims of criminality for sure.

He weakly fought and lost his battle within

And on any help had slammed shut the door.

No tears will seep from us, for his life was sin –

But not always, there was a respectful time before

When he’d paid taxes, and was thoughtful to kin;

He knew what love was, and his family did implore,

But he left them for dead when he went out to score. 

Her son, who once could do no wrong in her loving eyes

Before his time had been laid to transgressing rest.

With tears she regrettably said her farewell goodbyes

Whilst packing away his memories in the old attic chest.

Yet just across town her son slowly breathed in air,

With no one to lend a hand, and now also a care. 

© Andrew Stevenson 13/03/2017

 

This is a sonnet written from a perspective. I have some old school friends who are now heroin addicts, who I speak to occasionally.

 

Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.