He had been seen many times staggering
across this bridge, stopping somewhere near
the middle, lost in the sorrows of addiction,
to contemplate the power of the current and
listen to beckoning songs of dark angels.
The words were his story, a broken body,
engulfed in need, blood flooded with poison
and spilled into the gutters while demons of
dependence burrowed into the marrow of
his being, taking up residence like cancer.
Now he gazed at the river with clear thoughts,
remembering being snatched by an unknown
savior as one leg went over the railing. Clean —
watching dusk ride the water, wondering how
to mate destiny with a buried past.
Written for the Sunday Whirl Wordle.