Alone, in a dirty bathroom in an abandoned house, syringes everywhere, rat droppings, human waste, empty vodka bottles. Squatters found him. I'm surprised they called us.
To treat, or not to treat, that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler to leave the unconscious man
alone, to suffer his fate,
for he slings the poison that made his fortune
Or take his arm, and pierce his flesh,
To die, to sleep, to revel among his dreams,
and slumber into the abyss, unknowing,
for in that death, what dreams may come
haunted visions born from a witches brew
interrupted by a different potion
that makes calamity of extended life
of scorn and ridicule, and endless need,
the pangs of love delayed, and the laws slippery grasp
for who is this man, that scorns the life of a common man,
and chooses one of continued depravity,
and suffers in silence, alone, with his thoughts
and an empty bag whose contents
are better served as fleeting sands in the hourglass
rather than the ruination of
another poor soul
whose time is running out.
I pushed the Narcan.