He would be born in the
dead of January,
on the darkest night.
He would be a happy child,
but he would learn to hate,
and he would grow to shake.
His day old whiskers would
scratch against the smooth
white pillow, a day old aroma
of a cigarette still in hand.
The harsh merlot would
stain his tattered, rough jeans.
He would search for crisp
dollar bills, stiff for rolling.
He would sleep encased in a
white mist, a deep crimson
stream along his upper lip.
He would search for another dark night,
only to find he was there
all along.