Dust
Searching for crumbs
between the empty trash bins,
he remembers his early days.
Then, he had his independence,
provisions were never scant.
He could more than live
on a doctor's wages.
It was like this for a long time,
until he tried the stuff.
At first, it brought him ecstasy
and nirvana at the croft.
A few friends intervened;
the asylum did their part.
Yet he still could not
practice his art
for the thing,
the stuff
the dust,
had set in.
poem by Buxton Shippy
Added by Poetry Lover
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