Hans Ostrom's 'Morphine': A Raw Tale of Darkness and Desperation 🖤

My eyes turned feral, made <br />visitors feel hunted. When I <br />talked, interlocutors thought <br />of machine-gun turrets, wolf-children, <br />and town drunks. I sold grand schemes <br />to myself, Mad Morphine Dauphin. <br /> <br />I became characters in <br />stories my mind told my mind. I <br />softly ceased to exist. The stench <br />of the hospital, my tube-invaded body, <br />Cubist quarrels with nurses—none <br />of this had to do with old <br />what’s-my-name. Morphine <br />slew ego. I was a parsonage <br />without a parson, a jukebox mausoleum. <br />Later I reintroduced myself to <br />myself. Long time, no see. There <br />are still hard feelings between us.<br /><br />Hans Ostrom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morphine-2/