Member Poem

Addiction is like being a wolf to an electric moon.
The moon is high up there and if only
the wolf, howling, could feel a spontaneous communion.

But since it is an electric moon
there is no communion.  No flow and no pull.
There is no connection
because electricity blocks pain.

And who ever thought that a real wolf
howled with a real moon
from anything less admitted
than yearning
heartbreak
loneliness
pleasure.

These wolves of my heart
they seek and seek and roam and roam.
They know what the darkness is really like
only they have forgotten in the electric glow.

They have forgotten the soft, velvet feel of the dark
how it envelops eternity as a spiraling cradle
certainly nothing to be frightened of.

Yet in the hiss and spit
in the crackle noise of the electric moon
where even moths can't fly to the light in safety
these wolves have lost their sleep.
These wolves have lost their sense of time and space and direction
following only the electric current that leads and leads but never delivers.

A soft white moon dull like a good bone.
An electric blue moon snapping and charged.

If the wolves want to have their howls answered by the same force that pulls the waters of these oceans
they will have to relearn their true natures.