Through the squeaky mail slot

Falls a note from the dealer

Beckoning your return

To bask in the glow of the high

The stuff is always the best

Pulls you down so far

You can’t see how low you have fallen

You arrive and push the heavy door open

Like a full syringe plunging slow into waiting veins

Emptying your soul beyond the fill line

And dragging you deeper

The blur that ensues is a colourful dream

Satisfaction in the moments

Are less so as they fade

You head for the door with haste

Trying to escape that need

Euphoria replaced with reality as the dealer takes his price

You swear this is the last time you will answer his call

Until that squeak of the mail slot beckons again