With a tourniquet
And a needles' prick
Attempting to soothe
A certain nervous tic
That both loved and hated
Warm familiar rush
Creates its' false sense of ease
Bringing him home again one last time
Following the nod
He'll say goodnight
Sleep away and die in a dream
Upon the morrow
Your mourning he’ll borrow
© A. Bougie 2002 - Edited 7/27/2018
