Several miles beyond, the dark mountain looms
threateningly - mirroring my mood
as we both brood coldly. Snow clouds hold
grip of its peaks and melt in an icy drizzle to the
ochre and umber, wind-swept valley below.
Inside this dank motel room with its peeling
walls, my addiction is both hidden and enhanced.
The room’s grimy interior is closed to the world
by a threadbare curtain which hangs
askew, sealing me inside my drunken fortress.
I lift bottles to my mouth with abandon,
gratefully lacking the contempt of others.
A tinny television mutters a string of profanities
from a corner, and a faucet drips incessantly into
the filthy sink. It all seems to echo what I
have become. I have become as this dead, dry fly,
scraping back and forth along the window sill,
manipulated by currents of stale air.