His Addiction: An Original Non-lyrical Poem

Out of one realm,

and into that of another.

He looked around.

The graves that laid by him.

The abandoned asylum,

blocking all light from the rabid authority,

all of which after him,

created a warped sense of security.

Finding a rather large tomb stone,

more than likely from some long forgotten time,

the Grave Robber laid on it in such a way,

a way that might ask how much more flippant he could act.

He takes out the Zydrate,

the little glass vial.

One thing he wished he was immune to:

the GENco authority.

And himself.

He ventures threw his coat pockets,

going threw all the dross,

to put together him sparse remunerate.

We know that Zydrate comes in a little glass vial.

And the little glass vial,

goes into the gun like a battery.

And then the Zydrate gun goes somewhere against your anatomy.

And we all know that when the gun goes off,

it will spark and your body would be ready for surgery.

But surgery,

the grave robber's mind was not thinking off.

Injecting it,

his senses became dilate,

assurance from the worlds problems,

the feeling of immunity,

the rejuvenate power,

coursing threw his veins,

is all that matters to him.

He laid perfectly still,

his body pugnacious towards the drug,

his mind following console from his demons.

That sterling high,

that is what he wanted.

Hours go by,

his body simmers down,

now he in liability to get the next high,

grabs his materials,

and re-ventures out,

to find a new, fresh grave.