Tips Of Poison
Anguish, the relic of expectation
Fear, a premonition of Doom
Lies, the darts with poison tips
Skeletons in the closet's tomb
Coffin nails are spearheads
Coated with shades of night
Wolvesbane lends the flavor
Of his death's delight
Lines and passages are woven
Between the story's text
Words are the darts tipped with poison
The stanzas are all hexed
Probing the depths of conscious
That doomed emotions conceal
Drops of poison fall
On naked tips of steel
Push now ever slowly
The blade of ending lives
Words are the sharpest daggers
The poison tips of knives
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"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."
-William Gibson
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Published Date
5/22/2003 12:00:00 AM
Published In
Poetry.com
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