In dreams, you are alive,
and we glide and visit places
that we used to hike and laugh
with sunlit smiles on our faces.
Birds perch and sing;
snakes soak up the sun.
The topics we discuss are wild
and our meanderings are fun.
But heroin is sad and boring
and so, I think, is being dead.
On both accounts, you took a path
that only you would tread.
I never understood the craving;
I built a statue out of sticks,
and fished for answers in the river
while you went and got your fix.
You’re never coming back,
and the dreams will never end.
Waking life is so much better
when we hike around the bend.
