Weakness

The drive surges like currents of false ambition

Vice-like smokey vapors will your intoxication,

Overstimulating the senses until the next fix;

Leaving behind a husk empty and numb,

A mask too mangled to hide behind.

Slowly, it stalks its prey, smelling fear;

Enticing your warped mind to give in,

With it's cold and clammy touch;

Raking its nails across salaciously

Musty fumes cloud all prudence.

The voice, a snickering serpentine cackle,

Yet another encounter is swayed in his favor;

No longer in control, the meekly beaten puppet

Dances toward inevitable destruction; a descent,

A decline easily defeated if his spirit smolders again.