Beneath the glamour of distraction,

Remains the problem itself.

Bearing a label that reads,

“Too hard to handle, a hazard to your health.”

A house of smoke and mirrors,

Another room, another reason.

Doors hide an underlying fear,

Of his going out of season.

For lack of a better excuse,

I’ll turn my back as you swing from your noose.

In the clear and out of use,

Slowly you wither as you revel in abuse.