Morphine Eyes And A Crushed Flower Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

I crushed a flower
in my hand.
It felt good.
It felt right.
Felt like I was
absolutely
in control.
Petals and stem juice
stained my hand.
I make a wind
and
blow
them
away.
Just like a judge
presiding
over a trial,
I am the voice
of justice.
A bloated bulb
of tremendous
distance
begins to roll
over to me.
Misguided hand,
you must know,
that what
you
began
will come to pass.
Morphine eyes
see shapes and
shadows
that flicker briefly
before
floating away.
The hand can
try and hold
itself in power,
but
in
the end
can only
move as required.
I am as crushed
as the flower,
staining
the palm
of my demise.