Myth

A stern-faced man sat on a hill, and with addiction in hand
He sought to kill
He fell on the masses, unyielding from above
And tore away from me the ones I love
How can I not be angry at what you've taken from me?
I see their heads bent low with this affliction
How can I believe?
Substance makes the man, and substance made me, too
But I fail to understand why it has such a hold on you
When I look in your eyes, so strong is the hate for the sickness
That brought you in and the reason we can't relate