Diary of a Drug Fiend

Short Commons I51 Thirst ! Not the thirst of the throat Though that be the wildest and worst Of physical pangs—that smote Alone to the heart of Christ, Wringing the one wild cry “I thirst!” from His agony, While the soldiers drank and diced: Not the thirst benign That calls the worker to wine; Not the bodily thirst (Though that be frenzy accurst) When the mouth is full of sand, And the eyes are gummed up, and the ears Trick the soul till it hears Water, water at hand, When a man will dig his nails In his breast, and drink the blood Already that clots and stales Ere his tongue can tip its flood, When the sun is a living devil Vomiting vats of evil, ( And the moon and the night but mock The wretch on his barren rock, And the dome of heaven high-arched Like his mouth is arid and parched, And the caves of his heart high-spanned Are choked with alkali sand! Not this! but a thirst uncharted; Body and soul alike Traitors turned black-hearted, Seeking a space to strike In a victim already attuned To one vast chord of wound; Every separate bone Cold, an incarnate groan Distilled from the icy sperm Of Hell’s implacable worm; D.D.F. L