Poison's Taste

In midnight's breath, a venom

creeps,

its touch a whisper, dark and deep,

a spectral kiss, a silent sting,

that lingers cold and glistening.

Oh, poison sweet, so faint, so sly,

it bids the senses still and die;

it drips like honey, smooth and 

black,

with promises it won't retract.

It winds its way through vein and

bone,

a chill that makes the blood its

own;

a shadowed fire, slow to burn,

that takes but gives no life in turn.

The eyes grow dull, the heart falls 

still,

and reason bends to fever's will -

a haze of dreams, both foul and

fair,

that leaves the soul beyond repair.

Yet worse than death, its gift

remains,

a numbness locked in pulsing

chains;

the body moves, but life is gone,

a hollow ghost that drifts till dawn.

For poison's art is not to kill,

but sink flesh and linger still -

a curse, a weight, a quiet snare,

a shadow's breath in tainted air.