The dream’s in the arm. The arm goes cold. Winter inside. The good gets sold. Needle. Vein. The blunt small prayer. One more dollar. One more stare. Sarah at the screen: “I’m somebody now.” Static in the room like a broken vow. I hear my name through a fevered wall. I know that sound before the fall! “Be somebody!” The chant turns thin! The dream keeps calling from under the skin! Feed the hunger! Split the vein! The same sweet hell! The rotting brain! “I’m somebody now” — then the light runs dry. The dead-eye vision won't tell you why! Cell-deep panic. The ache won’t sleep. Promises rot where the night runs steep. It isn’t relief. It’s a habit of ruin. Biological collapse no one saw coming. Black rot in the flesh. Copper taste in the head. The red line dies. Living, but dead. The dream. Is dead. The static. Wins.
