Oxy

by Chris Butler

Synthetic junkies
strut down the same streets
as sober rock stars
and peacock birds,
but trip over the crooked
cracks on the
concrete clouds of heaven’s
sidewalk,

while loitering above
bloody floods exhaled from
deviated septums,
until the soaring dopamine
spills their lopsided
equilibriums through dirtied
dollars,

because one does need
a written prescription
for self medication.