From titles of Joseph Waumbaugh's books..

Let's run through your lines and shadows
or if, in this fugitive night,
I've stained your skin
giving you the fix you begged for,
I'll back into the corner 
and listen to your medicated monologue
as it echoes in the darkness,
each word a further poison,
cruel and unforgiving and loved
like bourbon
and the way it shines under streetlights
in swaying, aching hands,
the golden orange of it
poetic against the black backdrop
of footsteps walking way
I hope your words,
thick with more than theatrics,
serve you as much as you serve them
and keep you locked into this freedom
to which you dedicate
the slow-burn of the heart-thick paper
of my scripture
and the steady sound
of the rolling of the black marble
that is your mystery,
so solid, inscrutable, and yours
that it has lost its addict
for lack of inspiration
and replaced her with
footsteps, walking away,
in time with the endless
sound of the rolling black marble,
discovering that it is no longer
a mystery for mystery
is laced with light