Crashed

[finncullen]

The eyes climb open and the light begins
To slowly work inside
And memory returns of what has been:
Clean for so long, what pride
Was taken in that triumph of the will.
All gone. No pride, no more.
A dream of needles, and not just a dream,
Tore down the night before
With awful knowledge that a single drop
Of what was never real
Has left this paragon once more, again,
A slave to hollowed steel
So should he strive again with foolish pride
And prove himself a clown?
Or fill the cylinder so heaven-full
And push the plunger down?