So I’m your poison that you gladly drink,

the bitter harvest in which you have reaped

the rewards of conquest and now the trace

of almonds, the shade of night,

the cold touch of stout fast Oak and

velvet caress from the cyanide in which you

say you have taken from me

is all but an urge to be a martyr

on your part for not agreeing with you.

 

I am your poison

 

But you may as well scamper with Napalm

 

I am that poison in which to swim naked in me

is to be burned, to feel

nothing but the caustic soda dribble

and pour down your chin as if it was

nothing more

than the first smell of insanity

that you believe in,

for I am that poison.

 

You rue the day, I am the cause of

your untold misery and perhaps if I was locked

away, kept hidden and not allowed

to wander through the forest of the dead

at night, then the world in all its passion

would simply bend to your will

and be grateful for the fear of bullying

you install, for I am poison

I take on all the bared crosses

and offer no words of protest

for it is not the lack of siding with any one

in particular, it is more that conflict

makes me sad.

 

I am poison…

in your eyes

and you

may as well drink me.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015