A little poison now
begets
a little poison then..
becomes
a little ritual..
again, again, again.

“I do not need it!”
cries out..
the utterly deceived.
But it’s
the deceiver’s hand
that always
freely gives..
But it’s
the receiver’s hand
that reaches still
to take.

A man may mask
his sorrows..
but his joys
he cannot fake.
“I do not need it!”
‘course you don’t..
forgive me,
my mistake!
You merely “want it”
oh.. so.. bad..
that you’re about
to shake.

A little poison
now and then..
sweet dreams,
mon cher ami!
Who doesn’t crave
a momentary liberty..
from confines of
The Little Ease?

Much poison,
at long last, alas,
The Sweetest Dream,
monsieur..
I bid thee well!
The dream of sweetness,
infinitely boundless,
without end..
The Sweetest
Dream, indeed..
of Death.