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Poem

Some will say that a little poison,
let's say two or three drops
of crystalline, snow flake decorated cruelty,
in the pure water of affection,
should not be minded.
"Drink down!  Drink down, my dear-
for fear you will be left behind!"
And yet, in time,
the haggard look of slowly dying
sneaks in lines across the face,
it snaps from sleep at the slightest noise
and darkens the brightest pupils to pitch.
And still the water is there by the bed
looking refreshing in glassware and clink
All too absorbed with the molecule minted
in poisonous cruelty and passionate pain.
Once, in a dream, (perhaps in a crash
of an unruly hand in a fit of a flurry)
the night table was bit, knocking the potion
to seep unto tongues of the old Persian rug,
licked up by the wood in it's parchedness underneath -
It would have been prudent to notice the burns
of the fibers of wool and the ash under feet
when emerging from bed in the morning.
But, dawn has a way of softening pain
in clearing the eyes of black sparkled doubtings.
Though little odd voices reprimand good advise
and beckon the lover to reach for the water,
addicted to pain and it's infinite poison,
I say to thee, drinking dull spidered refreshment:
It's a far better deed to be thirsty and lonely,
bright and alive with elixir in veins,
then to die in the depths of a winsome and fairy
told in a story, a dream of another,
stiff in the arms of a traitor.

(For even the prettiest poison will get you
and if it's not sooner, my sweetness, my dear,
you can bet that it's bound to be later...)

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