Vices are great.

Wake up late, grope through bottles
that go clink clink clink
while you think how great a night
it must have been
to have left so little for its 'morrow.
Inhale through stained fingers
and feel it linger in your chest
before it stretches out
like a cat after a nap
and fills your body.
Your gullet sprouts legs and feet
and your lungs take arms
while your brain suckles,
like a newborn to a teat,
the fluids and chemicals it has found.
And, bound in the skin of a man,
the vices walk out and shout,
“Here I am!
Bow down before me
and be free from this world.”
And you walk,
an idle statue of flesh and hunger
for what used to be a heart,
but is now just a part
of some feeling
somewhere,
an urge to see your world burn.
But your vices will keep you warm
by the fire
while you sate that hunger
like a ravenous dog with a piece of steak,
because your vices are your face
and hands
and oasis in the desert.