Shadows dance on spackled walls, soaking up the light.
Papers scattered, strewn about the somber floors.
Silence grows, basking in the night.
Dark stains pool on a rotting desk.
Maggots tear at old flesh, tasting death.
The scent of urine lingers, long forgotten.
The man in the corner, sits alone.
A flash of light, a glint in his hand.
The needle calls, begging for a vein.
His sigh echoes, reverberating off wooden eaves.
Restless thoughts leak into the air.
Looking up in elation, he notices he is not alone.
-Peter Brindley
An Art Collective 