In the night, the voices come
Beckoning me to join them.
Somewhere on the outskirts of oblivion
A solemnization is underway, and Iâ€™m its guest of honor.
An all access cornucopia of colored capsules calling,
Coercing me to join them.
Infinite tiny pulsating voices,
Pulling and pounding their way in
Past the strongholds of my sobriety.
As the countless voices merge,
Like every night before,
After every battle won and lost,
It mutters just three words-
Everyone returns eventuallyâ€¦.
I toss and turn in a state of near-sleep,
A state of purgatory known all too well
To those suffering from restless leg syndrome.
Forever known as-